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I 


KRONSTADT 


r**' 







The corridor was full of gunners. 


(See page iii.) 



KRONSTADT 


A NOVEL 

/ BY 

MAX PEMBERTON 

« » 

Author of The Impregnable City, 
The Queen of the Jesters, Etc. 



ILLUSTRATED 





NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 



l ive COPIES RtCEIVEO. 


1st 


v 

W % s • 

» 


1098 




•> ^ 

' ) ) 

> >' 


Copyright, 1897, 1898, 

By D, APPLETON AND COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER page 

Prologue i 

I. — The masquerade upon the ice . . 9 

II. — “ A SPY WITHIN THE GATE.” . , . 30 

III. — At the coming of the light ... 49 

IV. — Lover and judge 63 

V. — Foreboding 76 

VI. — The honour of Paul Zassulic . . 89 

VII. — Paul bears witness 112 

VIII. — After forty days . ... . .131 

IX. — Out of the darkness .... 148 

X. — Temptation 157 

XI. — The beginning of the flight . . . 165 

XII. — The citadel awakes 177 

XIII. — At the zenith of the night . . . 194 

XIV. — The terrible night 205 

XV. — Upon the nameless island . . . 216 

XVI. — Alone 229 

XVII. — Forsaken of all 235 

XVIII. — A STRANGE figure ON THE SHORE . . 243 

XIX. — The quest of the woman . . . 254 


V 


VI 


KRONSTADT, 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XX, — The ship of the golden cross . . 267 
XXL — Acheron of the waters .... 274 

XXII. — Prisoner of love 285 

XXIII. — The unforeseen 300 

XXIV. — Toward the light 327 

XXV. — The word of tolma 348 

XXVI. — The evening of the second day . . 356 
XXVII. — At midnight 363 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


FACING 

PAGE 

The corridor was full of gunners . Frontispiece 


A hand was laid upon her shoulder . . . 6i 

“We shall know how to answer the general” . 175 

The crew flocked to the gangway .... 209 

Marian beheld again the world of islands . . 228 

She, on her part, stood white and trembling . . 272 

Silently they fell upon the fugitive .... 325 

Before the altar 363 





KRONSTADT. 


PROLOGUE. 

Someone cried out that the flashing light 
we saw upon the far horizon was Tollboken 
itself, and at this we left the quarter-deck 
and hurried to the bows of the ship. Even 
the invalid clergyman, who had not been 
more than an hour at the tea table, came 
panting up the companion and stood with 
us while the beacon magnified and gained 
majesty, and other lights shown over the 
vista of the waters, and the black line of the 
island fortress took shape as some terrible 
mausoleum of the sea. We had made Kron- 
stadt at last — the Kronstadt of my dreams. 
While others turned the pages of their guide- 
books, while some were ready with history 
and some with anecdote, I gazed entranced 
as the mighty citadel shaped itself against 


2 


KRONSTADT. 


the lurid canopy of cloud which hung in the 
eastern sky, and all the outward power and 
sullen magnificence were revealed to me. I 
stood at the gate of Russia indeed, at the 
impregnable gate, which the summons of 
war will never open. The exclamations of 
wonder uttered by my companions seemed 
the lispings of credulous children. The 
chatter of the tourist was like a horrid dis- 
cord in the temple of majestic silence. I had 
the wish to be apart from my fellows, to stand 
in some place of solitude and offer the wor- 
ship of the imagination at the altar where I 
had worshipped in spirit so many months. 

A Russian stood at my side, a young offi- 
cer of artillery, who spoke English with some 
fluency. He had found our pleasure yacht 
at Copenhagen, and had taken passage with 
us to the island of Kronstadt, where his duty 
lay. We had found him a pleasant compan- 
ion — a man who gave his laughter no holi- 
day. But when the shores of the gulf began 
to draw in toward one another, and the lights 
of the great citadel flashed upon the horizon, 
I observed. that the Russian was silent. Awe 


PROLOGUE. 


3 


of his own home possessed him. He leaned 
heavily upon the bulwarks of the yacht, and 
had no eyes but for the ramparts and bastions 
before him. When I spoke to him he came 
down from some high place of the imagina- 
tion to answer me; moments of time passed 
before he realised that he stood upon the deck 
of a ship, and that gaping tourists were his 
companions. 

‘‘ Forgive me,” he said, while he watched 
the group contemptuously. ‘‘ You asked 


“ If those two lights to the right of Toll- 
boken are the lights of Menzikoff? ” 

The question interested him, and after a 
word of surprise that I knew the name of the 
harbour fort, he began to explain many 
things to me. 

“Yes,” he said, “that is Menzikoff, 
though the lights are not the lights of the 
fort but of the harbour gates. The seven- 
fathom channel is there, and that flashing 
light, still more to the right, is the lantern 
upon the fort of Kronslott. Away a little to 
the south is Fort Paul, and that battery which 


4 


KRONSTADT. 


crosses its fire is Battery 3. You see how 
well we protect the channel, which is no more 
than three hundred yards wide, though cov- 
ered by a hundred guns.” 

I asked him how long the island was, 
questioning at the same time the accuracy of 
the statement that the southern channel was 
so narrow. 

‘‘ I should have given it a breadth of at 
least a mile, but of course there are shal- 
lows.” 

‘‘ Exactly; the Oranienbaum spit runs out 
as far as Kronslott itself. It is a spur of 
sand creating shallows — another barrier 
which nature has put between Russia and 
her enemies. Though I am a Russian and 
my word may be the word of prejudice, I 
say that there is not in all the world another 
citadel such as this; there is not one stamped 
out of the earth so clearly, a work of God un- 
mistakable, for the defence of an empire. 
Observe the great bay into which we are sail- 
ing. It is in the shape of a V; the mouth 
turned toward the Baltic, the apex toward 
our capital. Kronstadt itself is also V- 


PROLOGUE. 


5 


shaped, but the mouth of the letter is now 
turned toward Petersburg, the apex toward 
the open sea. Observe this clearly and you 
will see how the island, fitting into the neck 
of the gulf, becomes a vast and natural wedge 
which foreign ships may never pass. If they 
come by the north channel, there is the great 
boom of granite which a hundred navies 
could not destroy. If they attack us by the 
south channel, there are the guns of all the 
forts, a tremendous armament, which would 
crumble cities to the dust. No, my friend, 
you may search all seas and you will never 
find another citadel like this. She is invin- 
cible, the terrible gate of my country. We 
call her the tomb of spies, for no spy has be- 
trayed her or ever will betray her. She 
stands for all that is dear to us — our liberty 
and our freedom. Her secrets are entombed 
in a heart of granite. He who seeks for them 
walks with Death for his guide.” 

He turned upon his heel and left me to 
wonder as much at his eloquence as at his 
earnestness. I had supposed him to be a 
mere lieutenant of artillery, doing his duty 


6 


KRONSTADT. 


soberly and with no concern for the romance 
of war. But it has been my good fortune 
since that day to meet many of those who 
serve the fortress of Kronstadt, and I have 
found the same love of the citadel, the same 
pride in its power influencing them all. To 
them it is more than the mistress of the Gulf 
of Finland, it is the temple of their country’s 
freedom, the arsenal of God’s weapons, a bar- 
rier given of the Eternal for the safety of 
their kingdom. When it shall fall the empire 
must fall with it. But that day will be the 
great, the dreadful day. 

It was almost dark when our yacht came 
abreast the eastern end of the island, where 
the lieutenant took leave of us. We seemed 
at this time to be hemmed in by forts and 
batteries and by the tremendous walls which 
protect the town and harbours; lights flashed 
from every side, the lights of war-ships, the 
lights of barracks, the red and white and 
green lanterns of the bastions. I thought as 
I watched the lieutenant rowing away to the 
service he loved so well, that he had spoken 
truly when he named Death as the comrade 


PROLOGUE. 


7 

of him who would snatch the secrets of this 
mighty fortress. Death indeed; or if not 
death, then the terror worse than death, the 
sunless labour of the mines, the eternal soli- 
tude, the groans and sufferings of the deso- 
late land. 

To write a story of this fortress, and of 
certain people named in its recent history, I 
had come to Russia. No books or plans 
could help me to measure the achievements 
or the courage of those I was to speak about. 
I must see with my own eyes the things 
which they had seen; must stand where they 
had stood. As far as it lay in my power, I 
must realise the grandeur and the greatness 
of that sanctuary of war which they had in- 
vaded so resolutely; must hear the tramp of 
armed men and the bugle’s blast where they 
had heard them. In that spirit I left my 
yacht and entered the city which the Russian 
had called the tomb of spies. And I thought 
as I went of Marian Best, the Woman of 
Kronstadt, of her love and of her sorrows.* 

* The author would wish it to be clearly understood that 
the characters in this book are entirely fictional. 




CHAPTER I. 

THE MASQUERADE UPON THE ICE. 

Though the great bell of Kronstadt had 
struck the hour of nine and the bugles had 
called “ lights out ” in the barracks of the 
town, there was no perceptible curb upon the 
merriment of those who kept the carnival of 
the sea. For Kronstadt was ice-bound, and 
the New Year, bringing an end to the stress 
and storm of the earlier winter, had sealed the 
waves with the* seal of the welcome frost. 
Where ships sailed a month ago, the merry 
skaters now ventured. Far out from the 
great citadel, the gulf was still and frozen. 
No longer was the call of the pilot heard or 
the voice of the seaman crying to his men. 
The whirr of skate and sledge, the music of 
artillery bands, the prattle of pretty women, 
had taken their place. But, here and there, 


2 


9 


10 


KRONSTADT. 


vast fires blazing upon the ice drew the busy 
throngs to the door of tent or wooden thea- 
tre. The light of many torches made golden 
rings upon the fields of glistening snow. 
Old and young, generals and ensigns, roth- 
misters and feldwebels, hurried to the joy of 
the whirling life. As prisoners from the cells 
of solitude and silence they rushed from their 
island home to the sea, which frost had stilled 
and the ice made war upon. 

Conspicuous upon the field of the frozen 
sea, for it was built in the ring of light shed 
by the beacons of Menzikoff, stood the palace 
of ice, which the officers of the garrison had 
set up as the monument of a winter so gener- 
ous. Ready hands had hewn blocks from the 
shallower waters of the military harbour; 
stout arms had dragged the glistening boul- 
ders and piled them up for the foundations 
of the temple of the frost. Soon a vast build- 
ing arose, a tabernacle of shimmering and 
transparent whiteness into which cunning 
engineers carried wires for the electric light, 
while zealous corporals brought the flaming 
eagles of their regiments, and laughing girls 


THE MASQUERADE UPON THE ICE. n 

bedecked the temple with draperies of silk 
and satin. The enduring frost looked upon 
the work and found it to be good. A 
keener breath of winter breathed strength 
upon the palace and made it a perfect whole. 
Its builders spoke of masquerade and car- 
nival. Generals shook their heads but did 
not refuse. The 29th of January in the year 
1895 brought the proposal to maturity, and 
all social Kronstadt came out that night to 
offer the incense of laughter at the shrine. 
Old and young, poor and rich hastened to 
enjoy an opportunity so rare. While the 
palace within shone with countless lights, 
which gave a glittering radiance to the uni- 
forms of gold and white and green, *the dark 
field of the ice without was vantage ground 
for the townspeople and sailors weary of wait- 
ing for an open sea. Frenchmen, Dutchmen, 
Swedes, but English outnumbering all, they 
stood shivering in the icy blast, or warming 
themselves at the great fires, or roaring with 
laughter at the jests and the antics of the 
masqueraders. For them the sup of vodki 
must suffice; no frothing champagne, no 


12 


KRONSTADT. 


warmth of fur or dance, no occupation of 
looking love gave them armour against the 
cold. But they were critics always, and be- 
ing critics, they spoke their minds and were 
not afraid. Half an hour had not passed be- 
fore they had a name for every prominent 
person in the palace. The fat general per- 
spiring in an effort of agility, the gorgeous 
cuirassiers of the Guard in their dazzling uni- 
forms of white and blue — flour mills,” the 
English sailors called them, and qualified the 
noun; the mincing cornets of cavalry; the 
three-starred colonels of artillery groping 
for the honours of the clown — as each made 
the tour of the frozen ballroom and came to 
clearer view of the uninvited, his new name 
was roared lustily by the volleyed voices of 
the seamen. 

Higher up, spangled shanks — lift ’em 
up! ” bawled the bullet-headed skipper of a 
trading steamer as an exceedingly stout lady 
came shuffling into view. “ There ain’t no 
bally ’oop in Roosher as you’re a-going to 
jump through, marm.” 

“ Leave the lady be. Bill,” retorted his 


THE MASQUERADE UPON THE ICE. 13 

mate. ’Taint often as you see a fine 
growed thing like that — at her age too! 
You ain’t got no manners. If she weighs 
more than twenty stun, I’m a nigger! ” 

“ She shall pose for Venus! ” said a merry 
little Frenchmen; but a German protested — 
Blitzen! it is her harvest time. In ze 
summer der zun will melt her down! ” 

“ Why, here’s little ‘ Sixpence-a-box,’ ” 
chimed in a burly engineer as a mannikin in 
the green uniform of an artillery officer came 
prancing by. “ ^ Sixpence-a-box ’ along 
with the ‘ Tower of Babel ’! ” 

‘‘ He’ll want a ladder to hail her, I guess! ” 
cried an able seaman who surveyed the tall 
lady in question with the expression of one 
who could not take in the whole of her height 
and magnificence at a glance. “ You’d have 
to take three reefs in that lot. Bill, before 
you could lay your course for ’Ampstead 
’Eath on a Sunday! ” 

“Two to one St. Fr’squin! ” roared the 
purser of a small passenger steamer when a 
lank and lean stabcapitaine came galloping 
round with feet lifted high as though he must 


KRONSTADT. 


14 

crush the earth beneath him, “ I’m denied 
if he don’t fancy he’s running for a cup.” 

“ I’ll be thinking he’s took with the 
spasms,” exclaimed the red and shaggy- 
haired mate of a Scotch trading vessel. 

‘‘ Which shows your ignorance, Jack,” 
cried the engineer. “ Don’t you know a 
valtz when you sees one? Look at him 
cuddling Miss ‘Fore-and-aft’! It don’t 
want a book to tell you that she likes it 
neither.” 

“ I hear as cuddling’s come in again with 
the quick valtz,” said the purser. “ They’ve 
give up walking round one another like hands 
round a capstan now. Maybe the weather’s 
too cold.” 

A few ejaculations of approval greeted 
the surmise, one of the most melancholy 
among the company hazarding the opinion 
that the infernal regions were already “‘froze 
up ” ; but thereafter the conversation began 
to dribble away and was almost run out when 
a shout from the Frenchman awoke all to at- 
tention, and a new buzz of talk was born of 
the passing of a dancer whose steps were fol- 


THE MASQUERADE UPON THE ICE. 


15 

lowed with pleasure and approval by every 
eye in the group of the uninvited. 

“ La void! la belle Anglaise! la void! 
Comme elle sait danser la polka! ” 

“ That’s her right enough,” exclaimed the 
bullet-headed skipper; and ain’t she a 
beauty afore the wind. By gosh! I’d pay off 
with her myself, I’m damned if I wouldn’t! 
See how she goes about — and sudden 
too! It wants a head for that, mates, if 
so be as you’ve not been brought up to 
it.” 

“She’s a daisy!” exclaimed the purser. 
“ I told you so yesterday when she was out 
at Fort Paul with ‘ Sixpence-a-box.’ Look 
at the way she carries her canvas. There’s 
style about that, mates, as anyone can see.” 

“And look at the way her hair is wove! 
Oh, I tell you she’s a beauty! ” 

“ If you lofe her, you lofe little,” said the 
German, nettled at the unanimity of the ad- 
miration. 

“ Little it is for me, by thunder! ” cried 
the skipper. “ I don’t want a wife, as I’ve 
got to walk round every morning to see if 


i6 


KRONSTADT. 


any of her is missing. Give me the English 
miss, and the devil take all fat Roosians! ” 
The argument waxed hot, but la belle An- 
glaise skated on unconscious of it. She was 
a brown-haired girl whose bright eyes and 
white skin had cheated Time so that he for- 
got the day of her birth, which was twenty- 
five years ago, and had come to believe her 
still in her teens. A slightly-built, fragile crea- 
ture, whose face was ever changing and rarely 
carried the same expression; a creature of 
quick impulses and unresisting gaiety, whose 
words cost her nothing, whose gesture was 
the gesture of a Frenchwoman. They called 
her “ La Petite ” in the fortress, where she 
had won much love and many friends — none 
more zealous than the deputy-governor. Gen- 
eral Stefanovitch, who painted his eyebrows 
and wore stays. He had followed her like a 
dog this night of carnival, and she repaid 
him generously with many a word of com- 
pliment whispered into his willing ear and 
many a press upon a hand which, younger 
men said, should have been already paralysed. 
For they begrudged him la belle Anglaise. 


THE MASQUERADE UPON THE ICE. 


17 

There was no man in all that company of 
glittering masqueraders who was not the hap- 
pier for her word or the message of her eyes. 
And one, at least, there had given her the 
best offering an honest man can give — the 
offering of his love. 

He skated with her now, and had earned 
already from an approving audience the name 
of the Green-baize-tree.” A tall flaxen- 
haired man, for whose fine figure the neat 
uniform of the artillery betrayed close friend- 
ship, he had something of the manner of the 
more civilised West; and had learnt in Paris 
and London, as many of his brothers had not, 
the elements of those polite arts which win 
upon a woman’s favour. For the moment he 
applied such arts to the purpose of pleasing 
his partner, la belle Anglaise; and it was 
plain to be seen that he had eyes only for her. 
In and out of the glittering throng they 
skated, a harmony of gold and green, and 
soft furs and azure stuffs lifting to the breeze 
like wings of gauze. But while the man 
looked ever into the girl’s face, she, in turn, 
was spellbound by the trance of sensuous 


i8 


KRONSTADT. 


music; and being carried from the world 
about her to a kingdom of her imagination, 
she forgot all else and abandoned herself to 
the exalting rhythm of the dance. Not until 
the last chord was a lingering harmony upon 
the air did she so much as remember that a 
man’s arm was close about her waist, or that 
his head was bent down toward her until his 
lips almost touched her ear. 

“ You suffocate me,” she said, drawing 
back from his embrace and fanning herself 
vigorously. “ Am I so very like a rifle, Cap- 
tain Paul? Really, I thought you were going 
to present arms with me.” 

The great artilleryman began to pull his 
moustache and to look foolish. 

“ I thought you might fall,” he stam- 
mered. “ It is very slippery. Mademoiselle 
Marian. Besides, when I come to think of it, 
you are very like a rifle — your bullets wound 
and your eyes are bayonets! ” 

She took his arm and they walked with 
the others; the whole company being drawn 
by a subtle law of gravitation to the refresh- 
ment-room, where the corks popped, and silk 


THE MASQUERADE UPON THE ICE. ig 


petticoats rustled, and laughter struck many 
chords, and champagne frothed in silver gob- 
lets. The touch of her little gloved hand was 
like the caress of a rose; she seemed so slight 
and fair and fragile that he had the impulse 
to crush her in his strong arms and make her 
a part of his being. 

“You repent?” he asked her in a low 
voice, while he handed her a cup of boiling 
tea. 

“I?— of what?” 

“ Of many things — of all the dances you 
have not given me? ” 

She laughed lightly, and turned to hear 
the complaints of an ensign who wished to 
tell her that she had promised him the next 
dance; but had not the courage to do any- 
thing but devour her with his eyes. When 
she had sent the boy away, and had drunk 
her tea, she answered her companion. 

“ Repentance is a virtue,” she said, “ but 
to repent you must sin. The moral is ob- 
vious. I am going to dance with the ensign, 
and remember the time when I was fifteen, 
and wrote my own romances. Have you ever 


20 


KRONSTADT. 


made heroes of your boy friends, Captain 
Paul? Oh, the bitterness of it, when the 'di- 
vinity of your youth goes through the bank- 
ruptcy court, or a judge reads his ‘ Ode to 
the Chorus Girl,’ with emphasis. But of 
course you don’t understand — how should 
you? -It is only in England that a man — 
a certain sort of man — writes poetry because 
he is in love. You will come to that state of 
civilisation bye-and-bye. ^ Meanwhile you are 
barbarians, and would be impossible if you 
could not dance so beautifully upon skates. 
When I leave you I shall write a book divid- 
ing you into two heads ” 

Captain Paul, who understood little be- 
yond the fact that she was to dance with the 
ensign, interrupted her with a laugh which 
rang out like the note of a bell. 

''Into two heads? Moi! ga, c’est bien! 
I shall have four eyes to watch you while you 
dance. After that there are no more num- 
bers. It is one long waltz and I am your 
partner, hein? ” 

He twirled his moustache fiercely, seem- 
ing to watch every movement of her eyes or 


THE MASQUERADE UPON THE ICE. 


21 


hand; but when she was about to answer him, 
a voice at her elbow jarred upon their privacy 
and stilled her laughter. It was the voice of 
Mademoiselle Varia, the General’s daughter 
— the eldest of the two children whom la belle 
Anglaise had come to Russia to teach — and 
at her side stood her yellow-haired sister 
Rina. 

Ma’mselle, it is time to walk abroad.” 

Ma’mselle, eleven does beat upon the 
clock.” 

Sixteen years and fifteen were the ages of 
the children, but their English was not yet 
six months old and was unweaned from the 
jargon of polyglot phrase inseparable from 
civilised Russian speech. They stood now 
like two waxen figures beside their gover- 
ness, whose art was incapable of disguising 
the coldness of her welcome or her little love 
for their company. She answered shortly 
and almost with irritation, suffering Captain 
Paul to lead her back to the great ballroom; 
but thither the intruders followed, and were 
not to be put off. 

Ma’mselle, veux-tu partir? ” 


22 


KRONSTADT. 


Ma'mselle, nous sommes parfaitement 
pretes.” 

Mademoiselle looked over her shoulder 
and said, ‘‘ In a moment, children.” Then 
she made a doleful grimace. 

I had forgotten the ‘ Dolls,’ ” she said. 

Does not it speak well for your dance that 
I should forget them? ” 

‘‘ But you are not going? ” 

✓ 

Indeed and I am. Eleven o’clock is my 

curfew to-night. I am like the little criminal 

% 

who turned from his dark deed when he re- 
membered that the clock used to strike eleven 
in his mother’s house. You haven’t read 
Dickens, equally of course.” 

Captain Paul made a gesture of impa- 
tience. ‘‘ Why do you torture me? why do 
you not ask me to walk with you? ” he asked 
eagerly; ‘‘ you know that I am ready.” 

“ Who am I to say to you, ‘ Walk,’ and 
you will walk. Besides, you have partners.” 

‘‘ Partners — I — partners when you are in 
the room! To the devil- 1 ” 

He stopped abruptly, biting his mous- 
tache and rocking upon his heels. But she 


THE MASQUERADE UPON THE ICE. 23 

turned from him with a gesture of one inex- 
pressibly shocked, and ran to the room where 
thicker furs awaited her, and old Ivan with 
the lantern, and the Dolls, who still held each 
other’s hand and seemed to say, ‘‘ We are the 
good children from the fairy book.” She 
was not at all surprised when, presently, she 
found him waiting for her at the door of the 
palace; nor did she protest as he expected. 

“ I am forgiven? ” he asked. 

“ I will tell you to-morrow,” she said. 

You are glad it is not the General who 
walks with you? ” 

“ Gladness is a large emotion. Say that 
I am content.” 

“ Only content? ” 

“Why ‘only’? Is content so common 
an experience? ” 

The man sighed, but pressed the arm 
which he held, and drew her closer to him. 
They had crossed the ice which lay between 
the harbour and the temple of the carnival, 
and had entered the town of barrack and ram- 
part and bastion. Though Kronstadt slept, 
her robe of war was still upon her; the shad- 


24 


KRONSTADT. 


ows Upon her pavements were the shadows 
of her mighty guns; the tramp of sentries, 
the sign and countersign, were her music. 
Marian Best never entered that citadel of 
steel and granite without a little shudder of in- 
definable fear. Captain Paul felt the tremor 
upon her arm now, and it helped to an anx- 
ious sympathy. 

You are cold,” he said; ^Mhen wait a 
moment and I will wrap you in my cloak.” 

‘‘ And leave yourself a target for the east 
wind? No, I am not cold, but I fear the 
shadows! ” 

‘‘They fall upon us both,” said the man; 
“ we share them as we shared the bright 
lights just now. Would that we might share 
them always. Mademoiselle Marian, the light 
and the dark, the sorrow and the joy! ” 

The girl tossed her pretty curls from her 
forehead and laughed up at him. 

“ Is it not too cold to talk nonsense? ” 
she asked. “ I thought poets waited for the 
spring.” 

He took advantage of her words, for the 
lantern-bearer appeared now like a, star upon 


/ 


THE MASQUERADE UPON THE ICE. 25 

the road before them, and the Dolls were 
hand in hand at old Ivan’s heels. 

“ But I cannot wait,” he said earnestly, 
while he felt for her fingers and tried to lock 
his own in them. “ It is always spring when 
you are at my side; it is always winter when 
the night takes you away from me. Why do I 
read your English books all day? Is it not 
that I may find words to speak to you? But 
I have no words — I have nothing but myself, 
myself and my poverty, and my love for you. 
Some day, perhaps, it will be different. Some 
day I shall be able to come to you and to say, 
' I am no longer Paul Zassulic, of the Ar- 
tillery, but Paul of Tolma, the master of many 
and the servant of none but the Czar.’ I dare 
not think that such a day is near — the gifts 
of life come too often in the autumn of our 
years. But I shall be rich always while I 
possess my love for you, Marian; you cannot 
rob me of that; you cannot make me love 
you less; there is no one in the world who 
can take my riches from me! ” 

They had come up in their walk to the 

curtain of the bastion which defended Gen- 
3 


26 


KRONSTADT. 


eral Stefanovitch’s house, and therefrom 
could look down upon the town, now dark- 
ened, yet showing in the moon’s rays a forest 
of spires and turrets and the gloomy shapes 
of fort and barracks. Away upon the ice a 
great blaze of light, focussed by the translu- 
cent walls of the palace, marked the scene of 
carnival. Faint strains of music, the note of 
horns, and the rolling of drums, came up to 
them for a memory of their dance and of their 
pleasure. Some instinct held them to the 
place, and they stood together with quicken- 
ing hearts and muted lips, the man trembling 
with a strange excitement, the girl dumb be- 
cause the word she had long awaited was now 
spoken. It was no secret to her that Paul 
Zassulic loved her; it was no reproach to 
her, she thought, that she had no answer for 
him. While she had been content in his 
friendship and devotion, her busy life had for- 
bidden that she should reckon with herself or 
examine her own heart to see if any treasure 
of an answering love were locked therein. She 
was dumb because no certainty of self came to 
assist her; she would not wound, yet knew not 


THE MASQUERADE UPON THE ICE. 27 

if she could heal. A great seriousness pos- 
sessed her, a realisation that such moments 
were suprenffc in every life. She had few 
friends in all the world. The thought that 
this friend might be taken from her was 
bitter. 

Paul,” she said, when a sudden move- 
ment of his snapped the seal upon her lips, 
“Paul, what shall I say to you — you who have 
been my friend, who will be my friend always? 
Shall I tell you that I have done wrong to 
listen to you? No, indeed, for I owe you 
that — I owe you more than I can ever repay, 
a thousand times. Perhaps I am not like 
other women. When I ask myself if I love, 
I cannot answer — I do not know what love 
is. I am happy because you are my friend. 
I welcome the days which bring you to me. 
But a wife should be able to say more than 
that. Some day, perhaps, I shall know all. 
When that day comes I will not fear to speak. 
I will answer as you wish. I will tell you that 
I have learned to love you.” 

It was not the answer that he wished; but 
the word that he might ever count himself 


28 


KRONSTADT. 


her friend, and that she was happy when he 
was with her, made his pulse leap, and he 
drew her toward him again, kisting her upon 
the forehead many times and refusing to re- 
lease her from his strong embrace. 

God bless you, little Marian! God bless 
you for the promise! ” he said. 

It was only a promise, Paul,” she an- 
swered. “ I cannot give you more — I can- 
not lie to you, or how should I be worthy of 
your friendship? ” 

‘‘ There is no woman more worthy in all 
the world! ” 

A voice from the ramparts brought them 
to a recollection of the hour and the place. 
It was the voice of old Ivan, who wished to 
close the gate of the enceinte, and at his call 
Marian broke swiftly from her lover’s em- 
brace and entered the fortress. But Captain 
Paul stood long watching the lights in the 
Governor’s house. When he turned to go 
down to the barracks he saw that carnival 
was done and the great palace in darkness. 

It is night now,” he said to himself, 
“ but to-morrow the sun will shine and I shall 


THE MASQUERADE UPON THE ICE. 29 

see her! She is to go with me to the bat- 
teries. I shall show her everything, and that 
will take a long time. God bless the little 
woman I love! ” 

But Marian herself knelt by her bed, and 
heavy tears gathered in her eyes. 

“ If he knew! ” she cried bitterly, “ if he 
knew! 


CHAPTER II. 

‘‘ A SPY WITHIN THE GATE.” 

General Stefanovitch, the deputy-gov- 
ernor of Kronstadt, entered his library every 
morning at half-past eight precisely that he 
might kiss his daughters upon the cheek 
and wish their governess “ good-day.” The 
years brought no variation of the ceremony; 
the same words were spoken, the same com- 
pliments passed. When the General had un- 
usual leisure, he devoted some moments of it 
to a measured flirtation with the young lady 
who taught his children. When he had no 
leisure, he gave her a haunting leer or kissed 
the tips of his fingers to her if his daughters 
were not looking. . 

“ Bon jour, Varia.” 

“ Bon jour, cher papa.” 

Et tu, Rina? ” 


30 


“A SPY WITHIN THE GATE.” 


31 


“ Bien, cher papa.’' 

Marian Best, the General’s governess in 
the year 1895, always said that when the old 
soldier laughed the top of his head threat- 
ened to come off like the half of an egg. 
But this alarming effect was rather the re- 
sult of his weakness for painted eyebrows 
than of any deficiency of head or skull. Sixty 
years of life had not satisfied his vanity. A 
glance from a woman’s eyes could still release 
the flow of compliment and childish affecta- 
tion. Marian said that he seemed at such 
moments to be treading upon hot plates. 
His shrivelled body swelled until his close- 
laced stays were strained to bursting point; 
he bowed continually, and laid upon his 
breast a hand blue and long and almost flesh- 
less. She dreaded those mornings when he 
was not busy; it was a relief to her when 
she heard his sword clanging in the stone 
passage of the house or saw old Ivan run- 
ning for his great boots. 

“ Ah, you must learn our language,” he 
would say often; “you must learn the verb 
‘ to lofe.’ Some day we will have the lesson 


32 


KRONSTADT. 


by ourselves, mademoiselle. You shall re- 
peat the little word after me until you are 
perfect. Ho, ho, ho! Will you not have 
me for your master, Meess Best? Shall I not 
teach well, hein? ” 

“ Cher papa, qu’est-ce que c’est que tu dis 
a mademoiselle? ” 

‘‘ Rien, ma chere, rien du tout.” 

Sometimes, when the Dolls sat staring 
with inquiring eyes at his amatory contor- 
tions or strange pursuits of nimbleness, he 
would entertain for them anything but a fa- 
ther’s love. He could not caper as he would 
with the children for his audience. The 
snatched whisper or stolen leer was not satis- 
fying. He tasted the dry bones of flirtation 
when he was hungering for the baked meats. 
It was difflcult to believe that this perfumed 
old dandy, whose head was like a shining 
ball of mahogany, and whose eyebrows were 
an uncertain quantity, was the master of 
Kronstadt and of her garrison, the sentinel 
of the mighty Russian Empire, the keeper 
of the gate and of the freedom of millions. 
Yet Russia knew no more faithful servant; 


“A SPY WITHIN THE GATE.” 33 

there was no more devoted soldier of the 
Czar in all the kingdom; no man whose pride 
in the citadel of the gate was so endur- 
ing and ever-present. General Stefanovitch 
lived for his work; the gaunt and bare Gov- 
ernor’s house upon the north shore of the 
island was a palace for him; he desired no 
other gardens but the garden of fort and bas- 
tion, of shallowing sea and impassable ram- 
part. His world lay in that calcareous, barren 
island which God had set in the Gulf of Fin- 
land for the protection of Russia. His vani- 
ties, his personal “ scenery and effects,” as 
Marian Best described them, were trifles of 
his leisure. He forgot them in an instant 
when Kronstadt was named. She was all to 
him — the mighty tablet upon which his life’s 
work was recorded. 

Thus it befell that the moments when he 
could employ himself with amatory recrea- 
tions were few. The half of an hour with his 
children in the morning, a few words to them 
at night, sufficed for the proper performance 
of the domestic role. At other times he was 
the martinet, the hundred-eyed guardian of 


34 


KRONSTADT. 


the gate, the precise soldier who ruled with 
an ungloved hand of iron. Man feared his 
look; the dungeons of the fortress echoed 
with the groans of those upon whom the lash 
of his displeasure had fallen; the lightest 
breath of his suspicion, blowing upon any 
who served him, withered up the blossoms 
of that man’s fortune. They saw he was a 
just man, but one who knew not forgiveness. 

Nine o’clock in the morning was the hour 
which found the General at his writing-desk 
in the private cabinet of the Governor’s 
house. Neither fast nor feast gave grace to 
those who awaited him. He would enter the 
room as the clock struck; the echoes of the 
bell would not have died away before the 
grim Colonel Bonzo, the second in command, 
would have saluted and laid the report before 
him. Upon the morning which followed 
carnival, the young officers, who had not 
been to bed, declared his punctuality im- 
moral. No rose gathered at the hour of the 
dew was fresher than Nikolai Stefanovitch 
when he saluted the Colonel as the clock 
struck nine. Painted, powdered, prim — he 


“A SPY WITHIN THE GATE.” 35 

bowed to those who awaited him with the 
inflexible courtesy of an automaton. The 
eyes which had just beamed upon Marian 
Best, as they had beamed upon eight gover- 
nesses during the past five years, were now 
cold and steely and devouring. A great si- 
lence fell upon those in the ante-room when 
he passed through. Even the iron-framed 
Bonzo stiffened at his approach. 

“ Good morning. Colonel. You have the 
papers? ” 

“ Here, my General.” 

General Stefanovitch fixed his eyeglass 
and began to peruse the bulky document. 
He had read but a few lines when a subdued 
exclamation and a shuffling of feet again 
drew his attention to his subordinate. Such 
a breach of the discipline of silence was not 
to be endured; a sudden flight of the Gener- 
ahs eyebrows, which seemed to run up to the 
top of his head, marked his displeasure and 
impatience. 

“ You spoke. Colonel? ” he asked. 

“ I wish to speak, my General.” 

Now, when I read the despatches? ” 


3 ^ 


KRONSTADT. 


If you please, my General.” 

General Stefanovitch let his glass fall and 
deliberately rolled up the report. Such an 
interruption had not been known during the 
twenty years he had spent at Kronstadt. It 
remained for Bonzo to justify himself. 

‘‘Well, Colonel?” 

“ It is this, my General: the plan of Bat- 
tery No. 3 was put into the hands of the Eng- 
lish Government a week ago.” 

Colonel Bonzo stood like a statue when 
the words were spoken. The terrible news 
had been the burden of his night; he had 
heard it, and yet twelve hours had passed 
before he had dared to speak. Now the deed 
was done and the blow would fall — the blow 
of anger, of recrimination, it might be of pun- 
ishment. 

Five minutes, it may be, passed before 
General Stefanovitch found his tongue. Dur- 
ing that time he seemed outwardly to be un- 
conscious of the place or the word, but in 
reality his mind was seeking to and fro for 
the first link of the chain which reason must 
forge for him. To Bonzo’s surprise no 


“A SPY WITHIN THE GATE.” 37 

martinet answered him. The voice was 
low and in command; he did not speak in 
anger. 

“ Where does this news come from? ” 

“ By telegram last night — from the 
Prince.” 

“ How is it that I did not hear of this 
before? ” 

Bonzo half raised his hands as though in 
a gesture of excuse. 

There was carnival upon the ice, my 
General.” 

‘‘ Yes ? ” 

‘‘ And when I returned at midnight, and 
you were still down there, I did not think 
you would wish it.” 

He stood stammering and stuttering, but 
the other, awakened by all the impulses of 
duty, smote the table with his fist until the 
very glass in the windows of the room was 
shaken. 

‘‘ Not wish it? — I — whose honour is at 
stake! By heaven. Colonel Bonzo, what do 
you mean? ” 

The Colonel’s heart quaked, but he was 


38 


KRONSTADT. 


glad that the moment had come. He had 
waited for this, and now he took courage. 

“ I mean, my General, that we have first 
to ascertain if the plan of Battery 3, which 
the English Government is said to possess, 
is the correct plan or no. These English 
would give much for the secret of Kronstadt. 
Is it not possible that a part of the ten thou- 
sand pounds they offer to him who shall help 
them has gone into the pocket of an im- 
postor? I say that it is possible. I say that 
it is the only explication. The Prince is de- 
ceived; the plan is a forgery. We shall 
laugh in our sleeves by-and-bye, and sell the 
people in London more secrets. It will keep 
their tongues still and help us to hang the 
spies. Oh! be assured, my General, if there 
is any man in the city who has betrayed us, 
many hours shall not pass before we lay our 
hands upon him.’^ 

The Colonel spoke with great earnestness; 
there was a light of anger and of determina- 
tion in his eyes; his great hands trembled 
with his desire to be acting. Like his mas- 
ter, the island fortress was to him a sacred 


“A SPY WITHIN THE GATE." 


39 


citadel; his life, his work lay there; his hon- 
our was offered upon that altar of granite and 
of steel. The two men had laboured side by 
side for twenty years; they were more than 
friends, they were brothers in a great and in- 
surpassable trust. And now a common peril 
was before them both. They could not 
wholly realise it; they dare not tell themselves 
that a spy was within the gate; they were 
ready to be deceived if it were only for a 
day. 

“ I was a fool not to think of it at the 
first,” said Stefanovitch, taking heart as the 
other spoke. ‘‘ If they have a plan of Bat- 
tery 3 in London, it is not our plan. I will 
tell the Prince so to-day. He should not 
have been deceived like that. He should not 
charge the fidelity of those who have grown 
old in his service. We will see to it that he 
is answered, Bonzo. You shall make it your 
business to draw up our case, if that be neces- 
sary. Why does he not suggest at the same 
time that these English have a plan of my 
house ” 

“ Or of heaven? ” said the Colonel blunt- 


40 


KRONSTADT. 


ly. “ They are as likely to get it as the draw- 
ings of Battery 3. And why of Battery 3, 
my General? Why not of Fort Peter, of Al- 
exander, of Menzikoff? They have sought 
these things long enough. Why should one 
be taken and the other left? Are they chil- 
dren at Petersburg that they believe any tale 
which is told them in London? Do they 
think that we sleep while spies are busy on 
our ramparts? Oh, it is a jest, Nikolai, a 
jest, and we should be the first to laugh 
at it.” 

Colonel Bonzo’s laugh had grown rusted 
from long disuse, so that when he asked help 
of it the answer was loud and grating like 
the bark of a dog. His earnestness had led 
him to address Stefanovitch in the familiar 
style which the men assumed when no janis- 
saries of office overheard them, and this famil- 
iarity was not resented. 

‘‘ You say well,” replied the General, fix- 
ing his glass for the first time since he had 
heard the tidings; “the Prince jests with us 
and we shall answer him with another jest; 
it will be a list of all the people who have en- 


“A SPY WITHIN THE GATE.” 


41 


tered Battery 3 since it was built. He shall 
then tell us who is the spy, and we shall know 
what to do. Eh, Colonel, we shall know 
what to do? Then let Captain Paul come 
to me.” 

Paul Zassulic had gone to bed at four 
o’clock in the morning. During two short 
hours he had dreamed of Marian Best — of a 
garden of eternal summer of which she was 
mistress. But when six o’clock struck and 
twenty trumpets sounded the reveille from 
the ramparts, he had dragged himself wea- 
rily from his couch and turned gloomily to 
his monotonous work in the fortress. A 
roseate flush of the lagging sun which fell 
upon the field of the ice as a die of crimson 
and of gold, awakened him at last from his 
depression. A crisp wind of morning gave 
colour to his face; the keen air was as a 
tonic to his veins. When he stood up to sa- 
lute his chief there was the seal of health upon 
his cheeks, the light of untroubled youth in 
his eyes. 

“ You sent for me, my General? ” 

Stefanovitch, who loved Paul as a son, 
4 


42 


KRONSTADT. 


surveyed him critically, through the search- 
ing eye-glass before he answered. 

Certainly, Captain, I sent for you. You 
have heard the news? ” 

“ The news. General? ” 

‘‘ As I say, the news — that they have the 
plan of Battery 3 in London, sold to them by 
someone who knows it as you know it or as 
I know it.” 

Stefanovitch spoke with assumed uncon- 
cern as though the matter were the most 
trifling he could mention. It was his habit 
to avoid any outward display of anger; his 
glance was ever more feared than his word. 
Paul knew this habit well; he dreaded it as a 
criminal may dread the jests of his judge. 

They have a plan of Battery 3 in Lon- 
don, General! Oh, but that is a lie! ” he 
cried, looking from one to the other with 
dazed eyes and questioning glance; “it is a 
lie, I say, and I will tell them so! They can- 
not have the plan; it is impossible. Who 
should have given it to them? Who is there 
in Kronstadt who would sell his country’s 
secrets? Who is there that could sell them? 


“A SPY WITHIN THE GATE.” 


43 


You know that it is not true, my General. 
Lord God! that they should bring such a 
charge against me! ” 

Moment by moment he began to realise 
the gravity of the unspoken accusation. 
Sweat stood upon his forehead, tears welled 
up in his eyes. He had worked so unsel- 
fishly to make himself a good servant of 
Kronstadt that this overwhelming blow 
seemed to strike at the heart of his honour 
and his life. They had implied that he was 
unworthy of the trust — he, Paul Zassulic, 
who would have died willingly if the citadel 
had asked his life of him. They could put 
no greater affront upon him. 

“ It is a lie! ” he continued to repeat, 
while Nikolai Stefanovitch watched him ap- 
provingly, and old Bonzo’s grey eyes twin- 
kled cunningly; “it is a monstrous lie. Gen- 
eral! No one has entered the fort but those 
who have work there; I will swear to it, upon 
the Holy Gospel. If you doubt me, send for 
Seroff Ossinksy — he can tell you; he will 
laugh at the story as I would laugh at it were 
my honour not at stake. Oh, they cannot 


44 


KRONSTADT. 


have the plan in London — you know that 
they cannot.” 

He appealed to them pitifully, looking 
from one to the other questioningly, but he 
read nothing in their faces, neither of sym- 
pathy nor of reassurance. Bonzo wore, as 
ever, the changeless mask of iron severity; 
Stefanovitch lolled back in his chair and 
stared at the speaker as he would have 
stared at some defaulter hurried to the judg- 
ment. 

“ I know nothing,” he said in answer to 
the earnest protestations, ‘‘ nothing at all be- 
yond that which I am told by those in Peters- 
burg. They say that the plan of the fort has 
been sold to the English; you, who were in 
command of the battery until a month ago, 
answer that it is impossible, because no stran- 
ger has ever been permitted within the en- 
ceinte. Is that so. Captain? ” 

“ I will swear it. General, and my succes- 
sor will swear it too.” 

You shall both swear it before the court 
which will investigate this report. If your 
word be accepted, there is an end of the mat- 


“A SPY WITHIN THE GATE.” 


45 


ter. For my part I will tell you that I re- 
gard the story as ridiculous. The plan which 
the English have bought is a forgery; there 
can be no doubt of it. It rests upon us to 
convince the Prince of that, and to be un- 
resting in our vigilance. I need say no more, 
Captain; I am not here to teach you your 
duty; the city is well served when she has 
servants like Paul Zassulic.” 

Captain Paul opened his eyes. He had 
believed that they brought a charge against 
him; he knew now that they did not. The 
burden of suspicion was more than he could 
bear, and when it fell from his shoulders, an 
impulse of gratitude and devotion came from 
him. 

“ Thank you. General,” he said simply. 

I could ask nothing more than your ap- 
proval.” 

Stefanovitch dismissed him with a wave 
of the hand. He went from the room gladly, 
and with the purpose to seek out his sergeant 
at once, and to question him. But before 
he had crossed the great courtyard of the 
house, someone touched him upon the shoul- 


46 


KRONSTADT. 


der; and when he turned about quickly he 
found that Bonzo had followed him from the 
room. 

“ Ha! Colonel, you are going my way,” 
he cried. 

“ I am going to the prison,” said the old 
soldier grimly. “ It will be full enough by- 
and-bye if there is anything in this news.” 

“ But there cannot be anything, Colonel 
— I am ready to swear it upon the Gospels. 
No one has entered the fort ” 

Bonzo shrugged his shoulders, his little 
eyes were screwed up until they shone like 
the eyes of a ferret. 

“ You say no one? ” he asked. 

“ Certainly. I would swear it to the Em- 
peror.” 

‘‘ Do you forget that you had a visitor at 
the fort yesterday? ” 

“ Yesterday? ” 

“ I say so — the little Englishwoman, La 
Petite. What of her? ” 

Captain Paul could not have stopped in 
his walk more abruptly if a chasm had opened 
at his feet. 


“A SPY WITHIN THE GATE.” 47 

“ You mean Mademoiselle Marian, my 
Colonel? ” 

“ Certainly. Is she no one? Did you 
think so last night when you danced with her 
for two hours, eh, my friend? Shall I tell 
her how soon you forget the little lessons in 
gunnery? Shall I say that you are prepared 
to swear to the Emperor that she is nobody, 
hein? ” 

Captain Paul roared with laughter. 

“ Sapristi! ” he cried, “ that I should for- 
get Mademoiselle Marian, and that you 
should remind me of her! Of course there 
is our spy. Why did I not think of it be- 
fore? Oh, this will amuse the General when 
I tell him to-night. La Petite — who does 
not know which end you load a gun! She 
has made the plans, there cannot be a doubt 
of it. We will tell the people of Petersburg 
so. Jest for jest, n’est-ce pas, mon Colonel, 
and ours a little more foolish than theirs. La 
belle Anglaise — that I should forget her. Oh, 
quelle betise! ’’ 

The humour of the idea seized upon him 
uncontrollably, and upon the old soldier, so 


48 


KRONSTADT. 


that they went down to their work laugh- 
ing as lads at play. When they separated at 
last before the doors of the church of St. 
Vladimir, Captain Paul stood a moment to 
watch the other walking toward the prison. 
Then, being quite alone, his face paled sud- 
denly, and he seemed about to reel against 
one of the pillars of the cathedral. 

“My God!” he thought, “if the jest 
should be no jest! ” 

• ••••• 

Old Bonzo, lumbering along the narrow 
streets of Kronstadt, was saying to himself, 
“ She is too innocent; she shall be watched 
— night and day — the little Englishwoman.” 


CHAPTER III. 

AT THE COMING OF THE LIGHT. 

Marian Best opened her eyes dreamily, 
expecting to hear the boom of the morning 
gun ringing in her ears. She saw that it 
must be six o’clock of the day — time for her 
to think of the Dolls again, and of all the 
uncoloured drudgery of her life. She had 
travelled far, in her sleep, from the ice-bound 
fortress and the melancholy, prison-like abode 
of Nikolai Stefanovitch; had sojourned a 
while in the lanes and orchards of her own 
Devonshire, there to gather flowers of her 
affection and to kiss the lips of the child she 
loved. But when she awoke, with a red 
glare of light playing in her eyes and the 
grip of the frost to benumb her limbs, she 
came quickly from the garden of her dreams 
and steeled herself to face the solitude and 


49 


50 


KRONSTADT. 


the gloom of her island home. And she 
knew that the child, whose lips she had 
touched in her sleep, was himself sleeping 
more than a thousand miles away, and 'that 
between them lay the barrier of city and of 
sea — and of a woman’s poverty. 

She was surprised at the first that her 
room was not in darkness, and that she did 
not hear the voice of old Ivan asking if 
“ Missa ” would ‘‘ take a tea but anon the 
rustle of her silk skirt and the shape of the 
great stove looming up in the ruddy light 
brought her to a remembrance of the time 
and place, and she knew that she had dozed 
before her fire at the hour of the General’s 
dinner. 

That was her moment of respite; the mo- 
ment when she could shut herself in her room 
and be mistress of her thoughts and en- 
joy that dominion of self which no eye may 
share. When first she came to Kronstadt to 
teach the General’s daughters those scraps of 
English which pass for culture in Russia, she 
had welcomed this hour as the ultimate pos- 
sibility of her day; an hour when she could 


AT THE COMING OF THE LIGHT. 


51 


write to little Dick, her brother, and remem- 
ber the home she had left — the unforgotten 
voices and the harvest time of love. As the 
months passed and the terrible winter fell 
upon the land, and even the friendly sea be- 
low her windows was bound in the chains of 
the frost, she began almost to be afraid of ' 
herself and of the solitude. It may be that 
the work to which she had set her hand could 
not fail to react upon her mind, and so to 
war against her nerves that the creak of a 
door or the fall of a foot upon the stair would 
bring her to piteous trembling and dread. 
The secret she guarded so well was a heavy 
burden. Grim spectres followed it, haunting 
her, or whispering words that seemed to still 
her heart and to bring cries of fear to her 
lips. There were moments when a realisa- 
tion of all she had done, and would do, drove 
her to such depths of terror that her reason 
seemed to be leaving her. At other mo- 
ments she could call herself a spy and laugh 
at the world. The living death of the mines, 
the horrid sights and sounds of Russian pris- 
ons, were no more than fairy tales to such a 


52 


KRONSTADT. 


mind. She was only a woman, she said, and 
who would harm her? She would tell them 
it was a jest, and they must believe her. That 
pretty assumption of a child-like innocence, 
which had befriended her often when she had 
cajoled Captain Paul and obtained from him 
those secrets of the citadel for which her 
friends in London were willing to pay so 
great a price, that innocence should befriend 
her to the end. And the end was near now. 
She carried bound about her own body, a 
very part of herself, as it were, the precious 
sketches and maps and diaries for which she 
had laboured so earnestly. She foresaw the 
day when the shadow of the living death 
would lie upon her path no more; when an 
English home would harbour her and Eng- 
lish hands would shield her from peril, and 
the child she loved would be ever near 
her. Eor his sake she would go on, for 
his sake self should be forgotten with that 
new and sweetening impulse which the win- 
ter months had brought to her. She dare 
not tell herself that such an impulse was 
love for the man whose country she had be- 


AT THE COMING OF THE LIGHT. 


53 


trayed and whose honour she had played 
with. 

Many of these thoughts came to her in 
the moment of waking, when she sat in her 
great chair and watched the fantastic shapes 
of light and shadow; or listened to the moan 
and crash of the ice now mastered by the 
warmth of later February and losing domin- 
ion over the sea. Her room lay in the north 
wing of the Governor’s house, and was built 
out upon the ramparts, so that when she 
pulled aside her curtain she beheld a mighty 
moving field of shining floes, here decked 
with hommocks which had the glitter of 
jewels, there broken into tiny bergs and float- 
ing islands of snow; or again washed by the 
foaming waves which cast the waters up in 
fountains of spray and displayed a hundred 
changing lights as the moonbeams fell upon 
them. Grim and forbidding, above this holo- 
caust of the driven ice, stood the forts and 
batteries of the northern channel. Marian 
remembered the long summer days she had 
spent with Captain Paul in these steel-walled 
chambers of the secrets; how she had paced 


54 


KRONSTADT. 


the ramparts for a measurement of them; 
how greedily she had learnt the lessons in 
gunnery; how in the silence of this very room 
she had written down the answers to the ques- 
tions her English friends asked her, that 
thereby she might purchase liberty for her- 
self and for the child. To-night these mem- 
ories were full of an unexplained sadness. 
She recalled carnival — three weeks had passed 
since that folly — and the words of love spoken 
to her then. A yearning for sympathy, a 
sense of weakness, a consciousness that one 
man at least in Kronstadt could bring blood 
to her cheeks and light to her eyes, contrib- 
uted to her sense of solitude. She found her- 
self standing in the darkness and telling her- 
self that she was utterly alone. Then fear — 
fear she knew not of what — swept upon her 
like a freshet; there came to her the horrid 
thought that she was watched; that unseen 
eyes followed her even in the privacy of her 
room; that a man stood close to her and had 
but to stretch out his hand to touch her own. 
The terror of such imaginings served to freeze 
her very blood in her veins. She staggered 


AT THE COMING OF THE LIGHT. 


55 

to the wall and switched on the light. But 
the lamp showed her an empty room — she 
was alone with her fears, to laugh at them, 
to forget them as she had forgotten them a 
hundred times since she had come to Kron- 
stadt. 

The friendly light helped her quickly to 
this task of forgetfulness. The hand which 
pressed upon her beating heart dropped to 
her side. She ran to the door and looked out 
into the great corridor of the north wing. 
The silence of night lay upon it. Gladly she 
turned back to her own cosy room, to the 
warmth of the stove and the welcome privacy. 
A moment at the glass, a moment before a 
photograph of little Dick set boldly upon an 
easel, a touch of the dress here, a touch of the 
hair there, a pose of the dainty head, a silent 
question, “ Will he be there to-night? ” sat- 
isfied the personal instinct. She knew that 
they awaited her in the drawing-room; the 
Dolls would sit, one on either side of her, 
just now and hold her hand. The General 
himself would leer at her from the depths of 
an arm-diair and ask her to sing ‘‘ Bid me to 


5 ^ 


KRONSTADT. 


lofe.” It might be that Captain Paul would 
join them if his duties were done; and that 
he would linger on when Nikolai Stefano- 
vitch had gone to his cabinet, and would 
remind her, not by word, but by look and 
unspoken appeal and the silent tributes or 
homage, of the night of her promise, of 
the night when he had touched her fore- 
head with his lips and she had not refused 
him. 

The thought brought a deeper colour to 
her cheeks. She moved about her room with 
the quick, nervous gesture of suppressed' ex- 
citement. A man, observing her, would have 
said that a well-trained mind governed every 
act; he would have wondered, at the same 
time, that so fair a face should have led its 
possessor so rarely to the mirror. 

Marian Best knew little of the weapons 
with which nature had armed her. The thick 
brown hair straggled in picturesque disorder 
upon her forehead and her neck; rebelling 
curls showed themselves at every movement; 
her dress was “ thrown on,” but it fitted her 
to perfection; she had no rings upon her fin- 


AT THE COMING OF THE LIGHT. 


57 

gers, but the white hands were the prettier 
for the need. 

Eight o’clock was being struck by the 
church bells of the town when at last Marian 
left her room to join the Dolls in the salon 
of the house. She had quite forgotten her 
strange fears of an hour ago, and laughed at 
them when she trod the soft carpets of the 
corridor and peeped into the chambers which 
opened off it. No one moved then in the 
north wing. The rooms about her were ten- 
antless and in darkness. When she passed 
the cabinet where old Nikolai Stefanovitch 
had set up his holy of holies, she wondered to 
see the door of it open and a flicker of red 
light upon the low-pitched ceiling. Once 
only since she had been in the fortress had she 
dared to enter that room and to pry into its 
secrets. She knew well that the book-shelves, 
upon which she beheld the glare of the danc- 
ing light, were garners of maps and docu- 
ments which, could she possess them, would 
be a fortune to her; she knew that here were 
locked away treasures for which spies had 

laid doym their lives unavailingly. 

5 


58 


KRONSTADT. 


Never did she pass that study without 
some little tremor of heart and mind. Now 
it would be the devil of rashness saying, 
“ Enter and see or, again, the spirit of pru- 
dence telling her that therein lay the living 
death. To-night she heard the first of the 
voices, and prudence was no more her friend. 
The desire to have done with it all, to flee 
Russia and the land of bondage, possessed 
her to the exclusion of all else. She longed 
for the sound of little Dick’s voice in the Eng- 
lish lanes she loved. There came to her, 
out of the darkness, a message which said, 
‘‘ Search, and all that you want shall be 
found there.” She refused to listen to it, 
and answered in her heart that she would be- 
tray no more the country of the man who 
loved her. And this drove her from the 
door, but not many paces, for presently she 
stood quite still to listen for any sounds, and, 
hearing none, she gave herself up to the less 
subtle arguments. She told herself that when 
the summer came she would be in England, 
that the price of her work would have been 
paid by the British Government, that she 


AT THE COMING OF THE LIGHT. 


59 

would build a home to be the haven of her 
love. 

So was she held, chained by hesitation to 
the precincts of the corridor. The silence 
tempted her the more; she was sure that no 
man in the house then thought of the north 
wing — that all were busy in the kitchens be- 
low. A strong and conquering impulse sent 
her, at last, with muted feet, back to her own 
room. She picked up a volume of stories 
and deftly inserted a sheet of notepaper and 
a pencil between the leaves. Quick and dar- 
ing, and armed with all her courage, she ran 
back to the GeneraFs cabinet and entered it. 
She stood within the holy of holies, and the 
shadow of the living death was all about her. 

It was a spacious room, ill furnished and 
bare, save for the many volumes which gave 
ornament to the walls. A ponderous writ- 
ing-table had the place of honour, and this 
was littered with bulky documents and official 
books decorative in their disorder. Marian 
could see, even by the feeble light cast from 
the open door of the stove, that the General 
had been occupied very recently with public 


6o 


KRONSTADT. 


affairs, for a big blue paper was open upon 
his blotting-pad and his pen had rolled from 
the inkstand and smirched the paper. A 
heavy volume, bound in red, lay cheek by 
jowl with the letter he had been writing; and 
a wine-glass, half emptied, spoke of an occu- 
pation interrupted only by the gong for din- 
ner. That occupation would be resumed 
when the clock struck nine. Marian remem- 
bered that it had just gone eight, and with 
the remembrance there came upon her an- 
other moment of apprehension — such a mo- 
ment as she had known when she awoke from 
her sleep in the arm-chair. A panic, over- 
whelming and irresistible, seized upon her. 
She thought again that unseen eyes watched 
her in the darkness. She ran from the room 
and stood panting in the corridor. 

But the panic surrendered swiftly — as 
these fits were wont to do. She laughed at 
herself when a minute had passed, and took 
heart of her new resolution. She said that 
if anyone found her in the room she must be 
ready with many an excuse — the excuse that 
the door of the stove was open, that a cinder 


4 





A hand was laid upon her shoulder 



AT THE COMING OF THE LIGHT. 6l 

had fallen. When she entered the cabinet 
for the second time, a great hope nerved her 
to resolution. It was the hope that among 
the General’s maps there would be one of 
Fort Peter. vShe lacked this alone for the 
completion of her work. She said that she 
must have light; and growing bolder at the 
impulse, she found the switch, and a blaze of 
soft rays illumined the apartment. 

The brightness of the light awed her. She 
shielded her eyes with both her hands, and 
stood irresolute for the third time. Not 
until many minutes had passed was she able 
to read the gilt lettering of the books upon 
the shelves. When resolution came at last 
generously, she took a map down and un- 
folded it. It was the map of the southern 
channel wherein Fort Peter stands. She saw 
the name joyfully, and opened her book that 
she might have pencil and paper. But be- 
fore she could use them a hand was laid upon 
her shoulder; and when she sprang up with 
a cry unsuppressed upon her lips, she found 
herself face to face with Paul Zassulic. 

All the little comedy of excuse she had 


62 


KRONSTADT. 


planned so well failed in that supreme mo- 
ment to defend her. When she had faced 
her lover for a moment, she kn^w that she 
had no word with which to answer him; and 
all her courage deserting her, she stood white 
and trembling to hear his accusation. 


CHAPTER IV. 

LOVER AND JUDGE. 

The red book with the plan of the south- 
ern channel had tumbled to the floor when 
Marian started up from the table. Paul re- 
placed it upon the bookshelf before he spoke 
to her. She thought the act deliberate to 
the point of cruelty, but she saw that the 
hand which held the volume trembled, and 
she knew then that the man feared for her 
greatly with a fear such as her own. 

Paul,” she cried, flnding her tongue 
after many minutes, what are you doing? 
Why do you not speak to me? ” 

'He turned swiftly to show her a face stern 
and angry. 

‘‘ I am putting away the map which in- 
terested you, mademoiselle; it is ten years 

old and could be of no use to you. There 

63 


0 


64 


KRONSTADT. 


are others, but we do not leave them about 
for the amusement of everyone. They are 
locked up in the safe, and I have no false 
keys, mademoiselle.” 

The mocking tone was as a blow to her. 
Chagrin at her own folly, the certainty that 
the secret of her life was a secret no more, 
brought tears to her eyes. This, she said, 
was the end of it all, of her dream and of her 
liberty. To-morrow — she dare not think of 
to-morrow. When she feigned to laugh, the 
laugh was hard and forced and must struggle 
for mastery with a sob. 

“ Oh,” she said, and every word cost her 
an effort, “ you think that I care whether 
your map is new or old. What an idea, Ca]v 
tain Paul! Why do you not say that I came 
in here to read the General’s letters? ” 

Paul, who had put away the book and 
possessed himself of the pencil with which she 
had begun to draw, faced her for a moment 
and gave her a look which withered her smile 
and silenced her excuse 

'' Do not lie to me,” he said; “ God knows 
there is enough without that. You will not 


LOVER AND JUDGE. 


65 


laugh to-morrow when the whip cuts your 
shoulders and the prison blinds you. Fool! 
fool! Who but a woman would commit a 
folly like this? ” 

She did not speak when he charged her, 
but leaned back against the wall as though 
in defiance of his anger. Fler clever mind 
had begun to be busy again, and she re- 
proached herself that she should cut so sorry 
a figure; but he did not permit her to speak. 
A door shutting in the hall brought an ex- 
clamation to his lips. 

Hark! ” he said, “ there is Ivan Grigaro- 
vitch. If he should find you here — my 
God!” 

He switched off the electric light and 
dragged her from the room, back to her own 
apartment. She did not resist him, but went 
with a mind unconscious of her surroundings. 
Yesterday seemed far off; the thread of her 
life had snapped, as it were, at the moment 
of the discovery; she hoped nothing, could 
realise nothing; the thought that she passed 
through some valley of her dreams, but would 
never pass out of it again. When he had 


66 


KRONSTADT. 


shut the door of her own room she dropped 
into an arm-chair and sat staring vaguely at 
the red embers in the stove. She tried to 
think that she had awakened from her sleep; 
the voice of the man was as a distant sound 
coming to her across the sea. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he said, crossing over to 
her and standing at her side, “ before I tell 
them what I have seen to-night, as my duty 
and my honour compel me to do, I would 
ask you if you have anything to say to me? ” 

She continued to look into the fire, a smile 
hovering upon her face. 

“What should I say to you? ” she asked, 
with a shrug of her shoulders. “ Is it so 
great an offence in Russia to look at a book 
which does not belong to vou? ” 

“ It is an offence,” he answered quietlv, 
“ for which men and women are now dying 
in the dungeons of the fortresses or at the la- 
bour in the mines; it is an offence for which 
we have lashed many a man to death in the 
courtyard before this house; it is the one 
crime which Russia neither forgets nor for- 
gives. Great God, that it should be you — 


LOVER AND JUDGE. 


67 


you who sent the plan to London, you who 
brought this trouble upon us all! I cannot 
believe it, Marian, I cannot believe the things 
I have seen with my own eyes.” 

Again she had no answer for him, but the 
laugh left her face and she clasped her hands 
together across her knee. 

“ You do not understand,” she said after 
a while; “you will never understand.” 

She was telling herself, secretly, that this 
trance of the mind which held her tongue-tied 
and impotent was not to be explained. She 
knew that if anyone but her lover had found 
her in the cabinet of Nikolai Stefanovitch, 
she could have played her part to perfection; 
aping the ingenuousness and the surprise 
which had been able hitherto to shield her 
from suspicion. But she was dumb before 
Paul. A great shame of her employment 
came upon her. She did not fear its conse- 
quences yet, for she did not wholly realise 
them; but the thought that her lover knew of 
it paralysed her understanding. He, mean- 
while, paced the room in an agony of uncer- 
tainty and of distress. 


68 


KRONSTADT. 


'^Yoii say that I do not understand/’ he 
exclaimed in anger at her silence; ‘‘ not un- 
derstand, when I find you with a map in your 
hands and your pencil busy! Not under- 
stand! Am I a child, then? Shall I tell my- 
self after this that it was someone else, and 
not you, who sent the plan to London? 
Shall I look for another spy in Kronstadt? 
Pshaw! that I should waste words when every 
minute is precious.” 

‘‘ You need look for no one, Paul,” she 
said, rising and facing him as the resolve took 
her; I alone did what you say. No one 
helped me. I drew the map and sent it to 
London. I am the spy if that is the word. 
I do not ask you to pity me nor to think of 
me; I am not worthy of your help, God 
knows. I can stand alone in the future as I 
have done in the past. You say that your 
duty compels you to tell them of what you 
have seen. Very well, tell them now, and 
I will wait until they come for me. I am not 
afraid; why should you be afraid for me?” 

She had gathered up her courage and 
stood before him with blazing eyes and 


LOVER AND JUDGE. 


69 


flushed cheeks. He said that he had never 
seen so beautiful a creature, and her spirit 
won him to a sudden remembrance of his 
love. 

Why am I afraid for you, Marian? Can 
you ask that? Would not I give my life for 
you? Is not your hurt my hurt? Oh, you 
know that it is. If they take you from me 
they take all that I have in the world. Why 
could you not trust me? You have done this 
thing for money; why could you not have 
told me of your trouble? ” 

“ To beg of you? ” she cried, with scorn 
in her voice. 

Certainly, if by begging you might have 
saved yourself this dishonour.” 

It is no dishonour to buy bread that a 
child may eat. That is my crime; I am ready 
to suffer for it.” 

He stared at her in astonishment. 

“ It is my turn to say that I do not un- 
derstand,” he cried, “ and I must understand, 
I must know all, Marian. I may yet be your 
friend if you will be frank with me. But to 
do that you must hold nothing from me, you 


70 


KRONSTADT. 


must Speak to me as you would speak to your 
own brother.” 

I will hold nothing from you, Paul — 
there is nothing to hold. I sent the letters to 
London because they offered me money for 

them, and I am very poor, and there is a 
child in England who is dependent upon me. 
God help him! ” 

She sank upon her sofa sobbing, for a 
memory of little Dick brought her back to 
reality. But Paul’s arms were about her in 
a moment, and he held her to him and forgot 
that he was her judge. 

“ They shall not hurt you, little one,” he 
said; “ if you will only trust me, I may yet see 
a way. Have I not loved you too well to 
wish to see you harmed? Be frank with me, 

then, that I may know how to serve you. 
You say that there is a child in England? ” 

She looked at him gratefully through her 
tears. A photograph stood upon the easel' 
near her. She took it up and put it into his 
hand. 

It is my brother Dick,” she said; “ that 
is his picture. He and I were left to face 


LOVER AND JUDGE. 


71 


the world together three years ago. He will 
be six next year. It was for his sake I came 
here. I have no other relative in the world 
but my cousin Walter, who is at the Admi- 
ralty in London.” 

‘‘ Then he it was who asked you to com- 
mit this crime? ” 

“ He told me that the English Govern- 
ment would pay ten thousand pounds to any- 
one who could secure the plans of* the un- 
known forts here. Then he sent the book 

* 

which was written about Vladivostok, and the 
way the English got the maps of that. I 
asked myself why a woman could not do 
what a man had done. It was nothing to 
you that your plans should be known. You 
say always that Kronstadt is strong enough 
to defy the world. If that is so, what have 
you to fear from anyone? And it meant so 
much to me — a home for myself and the 
child, and exile no more. Cannot you under- 
stand now, Paul? ” 

He kissed her upon the forehead. 

“ I understand,” he said. ‘‘ God help us 
both!” 


72 


KRONSTADT. 


Her courage appealed to him, for she was 
quite calm now, saying to herself that for the 
child’s sake she would do again what she 
had done. And her mind was already occu- 
pied with a multitude of ideas, but chiefly 
with the idea that her lover would save 
her. 

“ Paul,” she said suddenly, “ if you under- 
stand, are you not my friend again? ” 

He began to pace the room again, his 
spurs clanking over the bare floor and his 
long cloak hanging loose from his shoulders. 
A voice of conscience whispered to him that 
he was one of the children of Kronstadt and 
must not betray her. The kiss of the girl 
was still warm upon his lips as a kiss of mercy. 
But even in the crisis a memory of smaller 
things intruded, and he spoke of them. 

‘‘ Mon Dieit! ” he said, “ what an actress 
you are, Marian! I remember the day I took 
you to the battery and showed you the breach 
of a gun. You asked me if a shell was a tor- 
pedo, and how we measured the ten-inch 
Armstrong, which seemed to you three yards 
long. You remember that, do you not? 


LOVER AND JUDGE. 


73 

How you ran about from rampart to ram- 
part like a schoolgirl. If I had known! ” 

She laughed, forgetting all that had gone 
before. 

“ But you did not know,” she said; “ and 
I measured the mole by pacing it while you 
were making tea. I can see you now, scald- 
ing your, fingers with the kettle and saying 
that it was an honour. I wrote down the 
number of the guns when old Seroff the ser- 
geant went to look for bread. He told me 
how deep the channel was, and repeated it 
over and over again because I was so stupid. 
You were all so kind to me! ” 

The love of jest was not conquered even 
by this, the tragedy of her life. She laughed 
with the laugh of a child at the remembrance 
of the comedy she had played upon the ram- 
parts; and Paul laughed with her, content 
that she and no other had acted for him. 

“ Oh! ” said he. “ You have the cunning 
of the devil! If it had begun and ended in 
this; but now — now when we have to-morrow 
to face, I cannot laugh long when I think of 

that, Marian. How shall I help you? How 
6 


74 


KRONSTADT. 


shall I do my duty? How shall I forget that 
I love you? Why, to-morrow, holy God! 
they may send you to the fortress, and I may 
never look upon your face again! ” 

He stopped abruptly in his walk, but she, 
standing by the chimney, looked into the 
ashes of the stove as though still seeking 
dream pictures there. 

“ They will do that if you tell them,” she 
said. 

“And I must tell them; I have no other 
course. My honour compels me. I would 
give half the years of my life to get you out 
of Kronstadt to-night, Marian; to-morrow 
it will be too late. I must tell them then. I 
cannot delay — you know that I cannot.” 

The words cost him an effort, and when 
he had spoken them he came and took both 
her hands in his and looked into her eyes. 

“ My love! my love! ” he said, “ how 
shall I help you? How shall I save you from 
this folly? Swear to me that you will do 
nothing more — that you will never write an- 
other line to England while you are in this 
house.” 


LOVER AND JUDGE. 


;5 

I must write to little Dick/’ she said 
petulantly. 

He stamped on the floor impatiently. 
Promise — give me the promise! ” he 

cried. 

“ I promise/’ she answered, clinging to 
him with a pitiful appeal; “ oh, I promise all. 
I will do anything if I may see the child again ! 
You will not tell them, Paul? Oh, for God’s 
sake pity me — listen to me! ” 

‘‘ I must tell them,” he answered doggedly 
— I must, I must! ” 

He pushed her from him, for there was a 
sound of voices in the corridor, and he reeled 
rather than walked from the room. But she 
stood trembling and still, and she counted 
his footsteps as he crossed the snow-clad 
courtyard. 


CHAPTER V. 


FOREBODING. 

The echo of the footsteps grew fainter 
and fainter, and was lost at last in a murmur 
of other sounds — the sound of a sentry tramp- 
ing and the clang of arms. Marian listened 
keenly for some while in the hope that she 
would hear the steps again, and that Paul 
would come back to her, repentant of his de- 
termination. But the deeper silence of the 
night fell again anon; the wind moaned dis- 
mally across the frozen sea; the crash of the 
rending ice prevailed, and she knew that she 
was left alone. 

There had been a buzz of voices in the 
corridor when Paul left her, and she opened 
the door of the room to hear who it was that 
had come up to the place. She thought that 
she could distinguish the deep baying tones 

76 


FOREBODING. 


77 


of old Bonzo and the cat-like purr of the serv- 
ant Ivan; but these were silenced in a little 
time; and she said to herself that she could 
delay no longer, but must go down to “ the 
Dolls ” and to the farce played every night 
in the gloomy and depressing salon. Though 
her hands still trembled, and there was a stain 
of tears upon her cheek, she would not think 
of that which had happened in the last hour. 
She cheated herself with the assurance that 
her lover would not tell; she believed that his 
love for her would prove stronger than his 
resolution to guard his honour. At the same 
time, her prudence did not desert her. Re- 
motely and vaguely she realised the possibil- 
ity that the work of the night might bring 
some swift and terrible punishment. Just as 
she had told her lover everything, so did she 
determine to tell other accusers nothing. 
She would play the part of the ingenue again; 
she would answer their accusations with 
laughter and little gestures of assumed fear 
and the weapons of the coquette. The ut- 
most that Paul could do, she said, would be 
to speak of a suspicion. It would be her 


78 


KRONSTADT. 


business to laugh that suspicion away, to 
make it ridiculous. 

While this was in her mind her fingers 
were busy in the execution of the plan. Al- 
though she was dressed for the comedy of the 
drawing-room, she began to undress swiftly, 
loosing the laces of her bodice and casting off 
her clothes until she was able to unwind from 
her body a scroll of paper, upon which were 
many little sketches and names innumerable, 
and the depths of soundings and the arma- 
ment of forts. She laughed to herself when 
at last she thrust into the fire this treasure 
which had cost her so many months of secret 
labour and daring schemes. She knew that 
its contents were written also upon her mem- 
ory, and that she could make a copy of it 
from memory alone whenever she might 
choose. 

“ They will search me and find nothing,” 
she said to herself when the ashes of the paper 
were scattered. “ I shall write to England 
to-morrow a letter for them to open. They 
cannot prove that I sent the map to London, 
and Paul will not tell them. I shall go away 


FOREBODING. 


79 


from here when the sea will let me, and 
that will be the end of all. Paul will forget, 
and I ” 

She turned from the fire with a sigh and 
began to lace up her dress again. A tremu- 
lous excitement possessed her, so that she 
went from place to place in the room, now 
pulling aside the curtain that she might look 
upon the moonlit sea; now standing before 
her glass to discover that her face was drawn 
and pale and almost haggard; or going to the 
door to listen for the voices of “ the Dolls.” 
It was nine o’clock when she entered the 
salon, to find the children sitting like mutes 
before a picture-book, and old Stefanovitch 
himself dozing peacefully in a chair. The 
scene was one with which she was familiar. 
She took courage of it, and whispered that 
nothing had happened. She tried to think 
that Paul had not spoken to her, that she had 
imagined the scene in the cabinet and that 
other scene with her lover. It lay upon her 
to play courageously the part she had played 
always. When the General awoke with a 
start, and sat staring at her stupidly through 


8o 


KRONSTADT. 


the after haze of sleep, she had a winning 
smile for him and a ready word. 

How stupid of me! ” she cried, with a 
gesture of feigned amazement. “ I did not 
see that you were resting.” 

She paused as though she would draw 
back, but the General silenced her gallantly. 

‘‘ Tais toi, tais toi,” said he, sitting up- 
right and searching for his glass; “ how shall 
I keep awake when you are not here? Tell 
me that, mademoiselle? ” 

But I have no business to let you know 
that I am here — at such a time. General.” 

He twisted in his chair, seeking to fol- 
low her with his eyes as she crossed the 
room. 

“ Du tout, du tout,” he said pleasantly; 
‘‘ you shall sing to me and I shall forget 
everything. One of the English songs, ma 
petite — a little song of the lofe — hein, made- 
moiselle, of the lofe? ” 

She looked at him prettily over her shoul- 
der, and the Dolls ” rising mechanically to 
stand one upon either side of the piano, she 
began to sing the ballad of the King of Thule. 


FOREBODING. 


8l 




She had a voice surpassingly sweet and ten- 
der, and music was for her more than an ac- 
complishment, it was an art. Her excitement 
and the passion of the past hour seemed to 
mingle with the harmonies of the exquisite- 
ly tender ballad. Even Stefanovitch, who 
thought that the angels must play upon 
trombones, was held in a trance of admi- 
ration. 

Magnifique! magnifique!” he cried again 
and again; it is the genius which sings like 
that. You shall be heard in all Russia by- 
and-bye, and the Emperor shall applaud you. 
Eh, mes enfants, would you not sing like 
mademoiselle? Is she not superb? is she not 
beautiful? ” 

He cackled and applauded again and 
again, while the children repeated the words 
after him, though their wooden faces had no 
change of expression, and the music was 
meaningless to them. 

Quelle une chanson delicieuse! 

Oh, mademoiselle, si j’etais vous! ’’ 

It is the song of Marguerite.’’ 

Sans doute — the song of Marguerite.” 


82 


KRONSTADT. 


“ Si je I’avais connu Marguerite! ” 

“ Stupide! she is dead; n’est-ce pas, made- 
moiselle, Marguerite est morte? ” 

Old Nikolai listened to their chatter and 
hugged himself at the trend of it. 

“ Eh, what is that — you wish mademoi- 
selle to tell you about Marguerite? Ho, ho! 
Another time, children, another time. Mees 
Marian will first tell that story to me — hein, 
mademoiselle, you will tell me the story of 
Marguerite when we are alone? ” 

Marian rose from the piano, telling herself 
that it would be a pleasure to box the ears of 
Nikolai Stefanovitch. But she continued to 
wear a contented face, for the thought that 
the friendship of the master of Kronstadt 
might yet serve her was strong in her mind, 
and she acted upon it. 

‘‘ I could not tell you anything. General,” 
she said; I should not have the courage.” 

“ The courage — not have the courage — 
with me? Oh, but I will give you the cour- 
age; you shall lean upon me, mademoiselle. 
Ho, ho! you shall lean upon me and be 
strong, and I will put the flowers in the gar- 


FOREBODING. 83 

den — the English flowers, hein? You shall 
find them and sing the song again.” 

She answered with a coquette’s glance. 
The Dolls stared at their father open- 
mouthed. They could not understand how it 
was that he slept when they were with him, 
or answered them in reluctant grunts, while, 
no sooner was their governess in the room, 
than these spasms of gesture and ridiculous 
antics seized upon him, and he became an- 
other man. Nor did they recall an occasion 
when Mademoiselle Marian had responded so 
willingly to his foolishness. The role of the 
demure and shy little governess was cast off; 
she had become the coquette to the “ tips of 
her fingers.” Possibly, Mademoiselle Rina 
and Mademoiselle Varia were very glad when 
the old Colonel Bonzo entered the room and 
put an end to such strange goings on. 

You are engaged, my General? ” he said, 
standing motionless at the door. 

Stefanovitch was on his feet in a moment. 
If he had shame to be surprised in such em- 
ployment, he did not show it. 

‘‘ You wait for me. Colonel? ” 


84 


KRONSTADT. 


'' If you please, my General.” 

“ There is news, then? ” 

‘‘ There is grave news, Nikolai.” 

Marian, who had been turning over the 
leaves of a book, looked up quickly. The 
tone in which the Man of Iron spoke, his neg- 
lect to pass a word with her, were warnings 
of instinct. She felt the colour rushing to 
her cheeks; her hands trembled upon the 
pages; a voice whispered to her — a voice of 
her imagination — Paul has told them; that 
is the news.” Excitement of the hour alone 
had enabled her to bear up before the General 
and the children. She had almost cheated 
herself into the idea that her alarms were fool- 
ish shadows created by her fancy; but now, 
when she looked Bonzo full in the face, it 
was as though the hand of the accuser already 
touched her shoulder. Grim, and stern, and 
unbending, the Man of Iron watched her with 
a searching gaze which stifled the words upon 
her lips and held her chained by fear to the 
lounge. “ He knows,” she thought; “ he 
knows, and has come here to tell the other. 
Paul has spoken, and this is the end.” 


FOREBODING. 85 

Mademoiselle, voulez-vous monter en 
haut? ” 

‘‘ Mademoiselle, I have the wish to sleep.” 

The children spoke, and Marian rose with 
an effort. She turned to bow to the men, 
but they had already left the room. She did 
not know that minutes had elapsed while this 
agony of uncertainty troubled her. She had 
not seen the stately salute with which the 
master of Kronstadt had taken leave of her; 
the dreaded searching eyes of old Bonzo still 
seemed to look her through and through, al- 
though the Colonel was no longer in the 
room. They followed her, she thought, from 
the salon to the bedrooms of the children; 
they watched her again in the corridor; the 
same sensation of dread, and the desire to 
hide herself, was with her when she entered 
her own apartment and locked the door, and 
sank, weak, and trembling, and afraid, upon 
the couch. 

It was near to the hour of ten o’clock by 
this time, and the bugles were blowing in the 
barracks of the town. Marian had heard 
them often when she sat alone in the room. 


86 


KRONSTADT. 


and had welcomed them as a message coming 
from the haunts of men. She asked herself 
if she would hear them to-morrow. She 
looked across the jagged sea, billowed with 
pinnacles of ice and swirling floes, and found 
in it the frozen barrier lying between her and 
freedom. She began to ask herself if she 
could seek any place of shelter upon the 
island. Had it been summer, some English 
ship might have given her harbourage; but 
now, when the Gulf was wrestling with the 
fetters of the ice, and no ships could venture 
from the harbours, what hope was there of 
that? She could distinguish, in the court- 
yard below her window, the shining barrel of 
the rifle which the sentry carried. The vast 
mass of the ramparts beyond showed other 
sentries swiftly pacing the outworks of the 
fort. The tomb could not have caged its vic- 
tim more surely than Kronstadt had caged the 
woman who had betrayed her. 

Midnight was struck in the town before 
she began to undress. Her unwilling fingers 
went clumsily to the work; and when she had 
laid her pretty gown upon the bed she asked 


FOREBODING. 8/ 

herself if she had worn it for the last time. 
Fear had wrought upon her nerves so piti- 
lessly that she could neither sit nor lie; but 
must be listening ever for the fall of a foot in 
the corridor or the sound of voices in the 
courtyard without. 

“ They will come in five minutes — in ten,” 
she would say. And she began to plan the 
defence she would make, repeating the ex- 
cuses she must plead and the arts she must 
practise. 

Or again, she would trust in the man’s 
love, telling herself that Paul would not harm 
her, that he would find some way. She could 
not believe that Fate would cut her off in a 
moment from the light of life and the love of 
life, and that little world of self-content she 
had created. All the comforts about her — 
the cheery fire in the stove, the pretty chairs, 
the pictures, the bed wherein she had dreamed 
of little Dick so often — she thought of these, 
and asked herself what magician’s wand 
could spirit them away and set up in their 
place the reeking walls of a prison. She 
had dared much, but the penalty of her 


88 


KRONSTADT. 


daring remained for her a phantom of her 
fears. 

Her long brown hair was tumbling upon 
her shoulders now, and she passed from her 
sitting-room to the little white alcove wherein 
her bed stood. All was very still and quiet 
here; she could distinguish no longer the 
wash of the waters over the ice nor the tramp 
of the sentries upon the ramparts. She shiv- 
ered with the cold, and lay for hours wonder- 
ing why the great house slept and no one 
came to accuse her. When, at last, the lag- 
ging dawn was winged, white and misty 
across the sea, sleep took pity upon her, and 
a befriending dream put her arms about the 
neck of the child she loved, and she held him 
close to her; and anon she walked with him 
through the lanes and gardens of her beloved 
England. Nor did she know that when next 
she slept it would be in the lightless dungeon 
of Fort Alexander at Kronstadt. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC. 

Captain Paul crossed the courtyard of 
the Governor’s house and began to walk rap- 
idly toward the town of Kronstadt. Marian 
had listened to his footsteps as he went, but 
her thought that he would return again was 
not in his mind. Indeed, he scarce knew 
whither he went or upon what errand ; so that 
the sentry crossed himself as he passed and 
said that his officer was drunk with vodki, a 
condition which every right-minded artillery- 
man considered to be the ultimate possibility 
of bliss. But Paul never saw the man. The 
snow, white and crisp upon the ramparts, was 
so much slush and mud beneath his feet. The 
keen north wind nipped his ears and cast 
flakes of the driven hail into his eyes; but he 
had no thought to draw his fur hood closer 
7 89 


90 


KRONSTADT. 


or to button up his cloak. An impulse to 
flee the house, the city, to escape at any cost 
from the terrible position he had been placed 
in, was paramount. Once he thought that 
death was the way, and at that he stood very 
still in the roadway and asked himself what 
would be the consequences of his death. 

It would not save her,” he thought; 
she would be alone then. Even if I hold my 
tongue they will know sooner or later. There 
is nothing hidden long in Russia. It may be 
a week, it may be a month, but they will 

know, and then ” 

He walked on with tremendous strides, ig- 
noring the salutes of the troopers who passed 
him by the way; deaf to the music in the 
cafes; blind to the lights flashing over the 
frozen sea. His life had been so barren of dif- 
ficulties until this time; his duty had claimed 
absolute and ready obedience. If anyone had 
told him a week ago that the day would come 
when he would hesitate to do that duty, he 
would have struck the speaker upon the 
mouth and have shot him afterward. But he 
loved Marian with a tenderness and a whole- 


THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC. gi 

hearted devotion of which none but an honest 
man is capable. Proud of his own strength, 
her helplessness and gentleness appealed to 
him with pathetic insistence. If it had been 
permitted to him to suffer in her stead, he 
would have laid down his own liberty gladly. 
He pictured her cast out from civilifation, 
alone, and friendless, and weeping in the piti- 
less prisons of Siberia. The sweet touch of 
her hands, when she had put them about his 
neck and craved mercy of him, was an ecstasy 
of memory. That she should ask mercy of 
him who had worshipped her so long in si- 
lence, that was a bitter day indeed! 

“ It cannot be — it cannot be,” he said to 
himself again and again. She did not send 
the plans to London; she did not mean to 
copy the map; it is all a mistake; it will be 
proved so by-and-bye. I will wait and see. 
My God! if I should tell and she should be 
innocent! But she must be innocent — she is 
— I will swear it.” 

All the chivalry in his nature waged war 
with the more subtle pleadings of conscience. 
He told himself that it would be a crime to 


92 


KRONSTADT. 


speak of what he had seen, or to take Marianas 
words seriously, until he was sure that she 
had sinned. “ She did not know what she 
was doing. They tempted her in London, 
but we cannot blame her for that. It is im- 
possible that she can have sent a correct map. 
We are strong enough to laugh at a little 
enemy like that; and I shall make her our 
friend. She will learn to love Russia as she 
has learned to love me.” 

He went on with a lighter step, happy in 
this contenting reflection. But he was still 
oblivious of all about him — of the narrow 
streets of the town which he entered, of the 
great looming buildings, of the cathedral 
square, and of the soldiers’ cafes. When a 
man touched him upon the shoulder and 
spoke to him, he awoke from his meditations 
as one may wake from a broken sleep. 

“ It is you, my Colonel! You wish to 
speak to me? ” 

Old Bonzo, for he it was who had stopped 
him, laughed good-humouredly. 

‘‘ You have long legs, Paul, my friend,” he 
said. Do not let them walk away with you 


THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC. ^3 

into the sea. Upon my life, you look as 
though you had seen the devil! ” 

“ I was in a hurry to get to barracks, 
Colonel; they will not begin until I come, 
and it has struck nine.” 

Bonzo’s eyes twinkled curiously. 

Old Nikolai will be gone to his room 
and La Petite to her children — hein, my 
friend? You can come away from the big 
house while the Englishwoman is still at the 
piano? I do not believe it. Ho, ho! She 
is not well to-night, and that is why you walk 
fast.” 

Paul shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 
He was thinking that Marian’s very life might 
depend upon his words. 

“ Mademoiselle Best is now in the salon,” 
he said unconcernedly; “you will find her 
there if you are going up. For myself, I pre- 
fer the conversation of my friends.” 

Bonzo gave a great guffaw and slapped 
the younger man upon the shoulder. 

“ You shall tell that to the little English- 
woman to-morrrow. I will remind you of the 
words. When I go up to the house just now 


94 


KRONSTADT. 


it will be something to talk about. My friend 
Paul running away from the petticoats! Bon 
Dieu! what a spectacle! Come and drink a 
glass of wine with me, my son, for I have 
news for you.’’ 

They turned into a cafe, and the Colonel 
called for the wine of Burgundy. The place 
was full and busy, the gold and green of many 
uniforms shining under the tremulous rays of 
many brilliant lamps. But they got a table 
to themselves, and Paul hastened to gulp 
down a glass of wine that he might hide his 
curiosity from one who could read and inter- 
pret the slightest gesture of friend or enemy. 

‘‘ Your news is from London, Colonel? ” 

Bonzo nodded his head and pretended to 
light a cigar that he might watch the face of 
his companion. 

‘‘ Yes,” he said, from London.” 

“ And, of course, the story we were talk- 
ing about the other day proves to be ridicu- 
lous.” 

Bonzo leaned over the table and whis- 
pered his answer. 

It is not ridiculous at all; it is true. The 


THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC. 95 

map which was sent is a correct map. Every 
gun is marked; the depths of the channels are 
given. The names of the garrison are accu- 
rate. We could not have made a better map 
ourselves.” 

Paul sat very white and still. He was 
asking himself whether he should feign sur- 
prise or doubt. A little reflection led him to 
believe that doubt would serve him better 
than surprise. 

Quelle sottise! ” he said, leaning back in 
his chair and smoking quickly. “ You do not 
believe that story, my Colonel? ” 

Bonzo took up his glass. 

“ I believe every word of it,” he said; 
more than that, I know it is true.” 

‘‘ You know? ” 

“ Certainly I know.” 

''Then there is a spy in the city! My 
God, what a thing to hear! ” 

Bonzo drank off his wine a draught. 
"Tut!” he said indifferently, "we shall 
know how to deal with it. And mark you, 
my son, it would be another thing altogether 
if the man who made the map were out of the 


96 


KRONSTADT. 


city. It is just because we have him trapped 
by the ice here that I can drink a glass of 
wine with you instead of hurrying to the Gen- 
eral with the news. To-morrow, perhaps, we 
shall go and look for this man. There is no 
need to disturb ourselves. No letters can 
leave us, no more maps can be sent to Lon- 
don — at present. Why should we hurry? 
There is plenty of time, and we do not see a 
man shot every day.’’ 

Paul started in spite of himself. 

“ But you don’t shoot spies when there is 
no war,” he exclaimed hurriedly. 

It is a fashion of speaking, my son. For 
my part, I would shoot no one when there is 
the whip — when you have only to raise your 
finger so, and your enemy is an enemy no 
more.” 

And you are sure that the man is still in 
the city? ” 

I know it! ” cried Bonzo, bringing his 
fist down on the table with a great crash. 
‘‘ You will know it too, directly. You shall 
see the fellow for yourself. Who can say? 
perhaps we shall send him to you at Alexan- 


THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC. 

der. To-morrow you must have the cell 
swept, and the irons ready, and the whip wait- 
ing. Certainly, we shall know how to deal 
with it; but with those at the capital it is an- 
other thing. V oyez-vous, mon ami, we can 
say no longer, it is a jest, there is no spy in 
Kronstadt. If we report this arrest, there 
must be inquiry, blame, recrimination. But 
if we do not report it ” — here Bonzo lowered 
his voice until it was but a whisper — ‘‘ if we 
do not report it, and the man who made the 
map should die in the cell at Fort Alexander 
— hein, how would they accuse us then? 
You understand my friend? ” 

Paul’s heart beat quicker, for he under- 
stood perfectly. They would flog the spy to 
death in the dungeons of Fort Alexander 
that blame might not rest upon their own 
shoulders. At the same time he did not fail 
to remark that his companion spoke always 
of the man.” Marian’s secret was safe then! 

'' It is a clever thought, my Colonel,” he 
said quickly. “ Why should we be bullied by 
people at Petersburg who do not know our 
difficulties? If I were the General, I would 


98 


KRONSTADT. 


report nothing. But he must be sure of the 
man; and is he sure? You say that he is, 
and I believe you. But I should be glad to 
see him for myself.” 

“ You shall see him to-morrow,” said 
Bonzo, rising and buttoning his greatcoat 
about him, “ meanwhile. Captain, do not let 
us forget our responsibilities. There is no 
officer here who should not be ashamed that 
this work was ever finished; there is none who 
should not say to himself, ‘ My duty must be 
done.’ You have said so, I know. You will 
do your duty and nothing will stand between 
you and the Czar you serve.” 

He laid his hand on the young man’s 
shoulder almost affectionately. Paul shud- 
dered at the touch and the words, for he 
seemed to read a deeper meaning in them. 
He told himself that he was already a traitor 
in his heart, for he had kept the great 
secret, had kept it with an effort which was 
an agony. 

When he left the Colonel at the door of 
the cafe, the lights of Kronstadt were dancing 
before his eyes; a fever of self-reproach and 


THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC. gg 

doubt heated his blood and quickened his 
step as he went onward to the barracks. 

“ They will know to-morrow,” he said 
again and again; “ they will know to-morrow, 
and she must suffer.” 

And he was impotent to serve her, impo- 
tent to do anything but remember his love for 
her and bewail the doom she had brought 
upon herself. 

These who met Paul Zassulic in the streets 
that night declared that he walked with the 
step of a drunken man. Pie passed them 
without recognition, or jostled them rudely 
from the pavement. Here and there he was 
upon the brink of a brawl. A cornet meeting 
him before the Observatory, and being thrust 
aside with little ceremony, ran after him to 
call. him “ hobbledehoy.” When Paul turned 
swiftly the youth slunk off. There was no 
better pistol shot, no quicker swordsman in 
Kronstadt than the young captain of artillery. 
Men spoke of his cleverness as a thing of 
which the city was proud. Bullies gave him 
the wall and proclaimed their desire to meet 
him only before other bullies. He had proved 


lOO 


KRONSTADT. 


his courage in many a difficult moment; his 
word was a bond to them. Could they have 
read his mind as he stalked past them on his 
way to the barracks, they would have known 
that courage was now wrestling with the 
agony of self-reproach; that he was saying to 
himself, “ I will tell at midnight, at dawn, be- 
fore the sun sets to-morrow.” 

A hearty welcome always awaited him in 
barracks, but to-night the men who rose to 
make way for him could not suppress an ex- 
clamation upon his appearance. 

You are ill, mon vieux! ” 

“ Fichtre! you have plastered your face 
with the snow, Paul.” 

“ He has quarrelled with La Petite, and 
comes here to be cured.” 

Paul turned upon the speaker, a grinning 
ensign, savagely. 

Hold your tongue, or I will cut it out,” 
he said, and the bov slunk from the room. 

'' There is nothing the matter with me,” 
he continued, throwing off his cloak and help- 
ing himself liberally to the absinth ready upon 
the table, or, if there is,” he added, it is 


THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC. 


lOI 


the wine of old Bonzo. I have been drinkingf 
with him up there. You understand? ’’ 

The men exchanged glances swiftly. 
Some shrugged their shoulders, other fidg- 
eted with packs of cards in their hands. Paul 
turned to the cards as a refuge from per- 
plexity. 

“ What are you waiting for? ” he said 
brusquely. “ Is it to make more complaints 
about my appearance? You, Sergius, Karl, 
are you going to sleep there all night? or is 
it Lent which troubles you? ” 

The lieutenants addressed rose from their 
chairs and seated themselves in silence at the 
card table. They were asking themselves 
what was the matter with their friend. They 
had a vague idea that the Englishwoman was 
at the bottom of it; but were too careful 
of their skins to hazard the opinion openly. 

I shall win your money, Sergius, and 
cure my headache,” cried Paul boisterously, 
as his friend began to deal; there is always 
a headache if you meet Bonzo after dinner.” 

There is sometimes a headache if you 
meet him in the morning,” said Karl, throw- 


102 


KRONSTADT. 


ing a card upon the table. This is the worst 
of these silent men; you are always asking 
yourself what they are thinking about, and so 
you get a headache. What is more, you 
never find out the thing which perplexes you. 
I would wager old Bonzo against the devil 
at any kind of cheat or cunning you like to 
name. He can read the papers which lie 
in your pocket-book; I have known him to 
do it.” 

“ Did he drink Burgundy to-night? ” 
asked Sergius, passing some roubles across 
the table with the air of a man not yet warmed 
to the game. I keep out of his way when 
he drinks Burgundy — it is a danger signal. 
Champagne, now, that means peace, and pos- 
sibly a pair of twinkling eyes. He has even 
patted me on the should.er with the paw of a 
domesticated bear — after champagne.” 

“ There will be no twinkling eyes to-mor- 
row,” exclaimed an onlooker who watched 
the game. “You have heard that he has news 
from the Prince — at least, that is the story. 
It should mean that we are to learn all about 
the map which went to London.” 


THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC. 103 

Sergius laughed; Paul continued to watch 
his cards. 

“ For my part,” continued the speaker, 
while he lighted a cigarette indolently, “ I do 
not believe any such story — pas si bete. 
Someone has played a joke upon the English, 
and we are paying for it with all this fuss and 
trouble. As if a woman ” 

‘‘ A woman! ” cried Paul, looking up sud- 
denly. 

‘‘ Yes; have you not heard? They say 
that the map was drawn by a woman. There 
is no doubt of it. Our own people in Lon- 
don have been at work, and they are sure that 
a woman’s hand is to be traced. It is an ex- 
traordinary story — to be told to a fool.” 

The man strolled away to the stove, while 
the others played intently for a little while, 
until, indeed, Paul of a sudden threw down 
his cards and rose from the table. 

“I cannot play,” he stammered; “you 
must excuse me, mes amis; my head is going 
round. It is the cursed wine which old Bonzo 
drinks. I shall walk in the cool air and then 
go to bed.” 


104 


KRONSTADT. 


He threw his cloak about his shoulders 
and quitted the room with no further ex- 
change of words. The cry of one of his com- 
panions, that he had left his money upon the 
table, did not arrest him. He was saying to 
himself over and over again, “ A woman’s 
hand — they know that the map was drawn by 
a woman! ” He had the desire to run up to 
the great house to warn Marian that the hour 
had come. He dared not to think that he had 
touched her lips for the last time; neverthe- 
less a voice told him that it must be so. The 
blow was about to fall, the gate of the prison 
to shut upon the woman for whom he would 
have laid down his life. 

‘‘ Sacre bleu! ” cried Sergius the lieuten- 
ant, staring after the retreating figure. “ So 
Paul is like that to-night. And he has left 
his roubles.” 

“ Not at all,” said Karl. ‘‘ He has gone 
up to see La Petite; he goes there every 
night. They have quarrelled, I say, and he is 
off to tell her that it was his fault. He will 
not be in such a hurry by-and-bye. He 
should have waited. It is much prettier to 


THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC. 105 

forgive a woman than to be forgiven by her, 
and it does not cost you forty roubles.” 

“ Or make you ridiculous,” said one of the 
ensigns. “ For my part, I would not lose my 
temper for any woman in Russia.” 

Sergius cut the cards idly. 

“Vive la jeunesse!” he exclaimed gaily, 
“you will know better by-and-bye, mon vieux. 
I used to talk like that when I was twenty; 
but I would not look twice now at any wo- 
man who could not provoke me. Fichtre! it 
is not love at all until you have made her 
angry. And he is very much in love, for he 
forgot to finish his absinth. Let us go to the 
square and hear more of the news from Lon- 
don. There will be plenty to talk about by- 
and-bye if the Sasha does not laugh at us.” 

“ Of course he laughs at us,” replied Karl; 
“ how should it be otherwise? Where is the 
woman who could make a map of Battery 3? 
Who took her there, and where did she learn 
her gunnery? It is a child’s tale and the Gen- 
eral is wise enough to laugh at it.” 

“ Child’s tale or not,” chimed in the grin- 
ning ensign who had spoken of La Petite 
8 


I 06 KRONSTADT. 

when Paul first entered the room, ‘‘ there has 
been one woman in the battery. I saw her 
there myself. She took tea with Captain Paul 
a week ago.” 

“ You mean the Englishwoman? ” asked 
Sergius, turning swiftly upon him. 

“ Certainly. Ask Seroff if you do not be- 
lieve me.” 

A great silence fell upon the room, the 
silence of embarrassment and of sudden reve- 
lation. There was only one man there who 
did not love Paul Zassulic, and he had spoken. 
The others heard his words, but knew not 
how to answer. 

“ You shall tell Paul that in the morning,” 
said Sergius, breaking a troublesome silence, 
“ it will amuse him and amuse us afterward.” 
But to the others he said, ‘‘ This is no place 
for the friends of my friend. Who is going 
with me to the square? ” 

They went out together, leaving the en- 
sign alone in the room. They did not speak 
to each other of the meaning of the things 
they had heard; the honour of a friend was in 
their keeping. 


THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC. 107 

Paul, meanwhile, had retraced his steps to 
the Governor's house, and now paced the 
courtyard regardless of the hour or of the 
night. Streams of light were cast out upon 
the hazy air from many rooms in the forbid- 
ding and barrack-like building; but one room 
alone was for his eyes. He could distinguish 
through the interstice of the curtains, the de- 
pending lamp and the gilt mirror upon which 
Marian displayed her photographs. Once he 
saw her pass the window swiftly, her hair 
falling upon her shoulders. He was tempted 
to scout prudence and to speak to her again 
before she slept. Although he had quarters 
in Nikolai Stefanovitch’s house — for he M^as 
attached to the staff — it was long before he 
could find the courage tp enter or to learn 
what Bonzo had done. The litle star of light 
shining from the window of the English girl’s 
room was for him as the lamp of a sanctuary. 
He tortured himself with thoughts of Marian 
sleeping in the shadow of the doom; he re- 
membered her prettiness, her gentleness, her 
winning pride. He said that they would 
crush that pride in the dust of suffering and 


io8 


KRONSTADT. 


linmiliation. The cruel severity with which 
the keepers of the gate of Russia could punish 
even their own children was remembered by 
him with loathing and regret. They would 
put unnamable indignities upon her, he said. 
He foresaw the day when the childish face 
must become the haggard face of the woman 
branded with the furrows of pain, and torture, 
and mental agony. He swore that he would 
save her, though her fate should become his 
own; and, swearing, he cursed his own im- 
potence and the very uniform he wore. 

Snow fell in lagging flakes at this time; 
the wind had fallen somewhat, so that all 
soiyids, other than the sound of men’s foot- 
steps, were plainly to be heard. Paul ob- 
served the passing lights in the great house, 
but could detect no omen of warning. The 
lamp in Marian’s room was a message to him 
telling of her safety. He could peer in 
through the window of the General’s cabinet 
and make out old Bonzo standing by the side 
of the writing-table; but the Colonel’s atti- 
tude was one of patient waiting, and it reas- 
sured him. ‘‘ It is not for to-night,” he told 


THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC. 109 

himself; it may never be at all. Even if 
they know that the map was drawn by a wo- 
man’s hand, how can they trace it to her? 
If they had any news she would not be sleep- 
ing in her room, she would be in ” 

He ground his heel into the snow when 
he dared thus to think of the possibilities. 
His mind was made up that he would stand 
sentinel no more. He feared the observation, 
the chatter of the sentries. Old Bonzo might 
find him in the courtyard when he returned to 
barracks; he could imagine no greater calam- 
ity than to raise suspicion in the mind of the 
man of iron. And this fear drove him into 
the house at last, but with reluctant and halt- 
ing steps. His own room, the bare room of 
a soldier, was in the north wing, remote from 
Marian’s, but not so remote that he could not 
hear the creak of her door when it opened or 
shut. Nor did he enter before he had walked 
with a woman’s step to the end of the cor- 
ridor and had listened a little while to assure 
himself that she slept. Then, delaying but a 
moment before the cabinet of the General, he 
turned wearily to his bed and lay long listen- 


I 10 


KRONSTADT. 


ing for the voice of Bonzo and for sleep to 
come upon the great house. 

There was no light in his room, nor had 
he kindled one. The moonbeams, striking 
upward from the glittering fields of snow, 
made glorious lamps of the night to shed a 
softening radiance upon all things. He wel- 
comed them, for they spoke of rest, and sleep, 
and the balm of the mind. He thought that 
they were playing upon the face of her he 
loved; putting a crown of gold about her 
white forehead and kissing her eyes with the 
kiss of dreams. When sleep took pity upon 
him at last, he was carried in thought to the 
night of carnival and the love message it bore 
him. He walked with her again through the 
silent streets of Kronstadt, but anon, as he 
walked, she fell at his feet and a scream of ter- 
ror awakened the sleeping city. No word, no 
prayer of his could hush that cry of dolor 
which he heard in his dream. It rang in his 
ears, terrifying him; he bore her in his arms, 
but awakened troopers pursued him; men 
came from the looming buildings to exclaim 
upon her; he looked back upon the grim forts 


THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC. m 

and mighty ramparts, and the angel of death 
hovered over them; he clasped his burden the 
closer in his arms and ran on; but the cry 
was unchecked, and phantoms of pursuit mul- 
tiplied until they became an army. 

And so he awoke and sprang from his bed. 
There was a glimmer of sunshine in his room, 
but the woman’s cry he had heard in his 
dream still rang out in the silence of the great 
house. He listened for one instant of agony 
and then reeled to the door. The corridor 
without was full of the figures of gunners; he 
saw Bonzo, silent and grim; he saw Marian, 
white and trembling. 

‘‘My God!” he cried, “the hour has 


come! 


CHAPTER VIE 


PAUL BEARS WITNESS. 

Paul returned to his room and began to 
dress, maladroitly, but with some deliberation. 
The irons upon Marian’s wrists seemed to 
hurt his own hands; her cry still echoed in 
his ears. He heard the heavy tramp of feet 
in the passage; he thought he could distin- 
guish the voice of General Stefanovitch; but 
anon these sounds died away and silence fell 
upon the house again. He said that it was 
typical of the silence which henceforth must 
wait upon his life. He thought that he had 
'looked upon the woman he loved for the last 
time. She had gone from him with that ter- 
rible appeal upon her lips; to what fate he 
knew not, save that the impassable gates had 
shut upon her, and that the herald of the liv- 
ing death had struck her down. 


II2 


PAUL BEARS WITNESS. 


II3 

He was glad that she had not seen him 
when he stood for a moment at his door and 
watched the gunners drag her from her room. 
The pitiful figure, the babyish face, the be- 
seeching eyes, would be for him the everlast- 
ing remembrance of her. He knew well that 
the measure of her guilt or innocence was not 
to be weighed by those who were to judge 
her. She, the mere girl, alone and unaided, 
had set herself against the might and the 
power and the terrible justice of Kronstadt, 
and had been vanquished in the contest. 
She had looked upon the world of light for 
the last time. No cry of hers would ever be 
heard by the world again. She would go 
from the city and none would dare to ask 
whither. 

Now that the blow had fallen, Paul was ■ 
surprised that his mind was so ready to serve 
him and that he could think so clearly. The 
arrest of Marian lifted one burden at least 
from his shoulders. There was no longer a 
confession to make, he argued. That which 
he knew was known also to the governors of 
the citadel. And he must defend himself 


KRONSTADT. 


II4 

from the possibilities of suspicion; must be 
ready with words of surprise and wonder. 
He alone in Russia remained the friend of the 
stricken woman; for her sake he would dare 
anything in the hope that he might yet be of 
service to her. And this hope began to give 
him courage, he knew not why. His clumsy 
fingers became supple; he dressed swiftly and 
walked boldly from the house. Old Bonzo 
was in the courtyard waiting for his chief to 
come out. Smart and trim, with well-squared 
shoulders and firm tread, the Man of Iron 
greeted the young officer with no more con- 
cern than if this had been a festa and they 
had been going together for a picnic on the 
sea. 

“ Bon jour. Captain Paul; I see you well 
this morning? ” 

“ Thank you. Colonel; and you? ” 

Bonzo’s eyes twinkled cunningly 

“All my nights are good,” he said; “it 
is the old bird who knows how to roost. And 
I am just going to breakfast with a lady. 
You hear, my son; then you will not tell 
madame — hein? ” 


PAUL BEARS WITNESS. 


II5 

His jocund efforts were like the labour of 
a shire horse. They angered Paul, whose 
feverish impatience scarcely brooked control. 

“ Colonel,” he exclaimed, unable to hold 
his tongue any longer; “ it is said that they 
have just arrested Mademoiselle Best. Is the 
news true? ” 

Bonzo stopped suddenly in his walk. 

“ You know that it is true. Captain 
Paul.” 

“ I, my Colonel? how should I know? ” 

‘‘ Because you stood at your door while 
they were taking her down yonder.” 

Paul bit his lip. 

“ Certainly I saw that, but I did not know 
the meaning of it. You suspect her then, my 
Colonel? ” 

‘‘ We suspect her so far that we know it 
was her hand which drew the map of Bat- 
tery 3.” 

‘‘Her hand, my Colonel — a woman’s hand! 
But she is as ignorant as a child.” 

Paul wished to assume an air of great sur- 
prise, but his gesture was false, his voice had 
a hollow ring in it. Bonzo watched him with 


KRONSTADT. 


I l6 

little twinkling eyes and read him as if he 
would have read a book. 

“ Y ou shall learn how ignorant she is 
when the accusation is made just now, my 
son. Did I not tell you that I would show 
you the spy this morning? Well, if you will 
go up to the ramparts, you will see her in the 
launch which carries her to Alexander. We 
will follow her there when the General is 
ready. Captain Paul. It is not every day that 
we can breakfast with a lady in Kronstadt.” 

“ I cannot believe it! ” cried Paul; ‘‘ I can- 
not believe that she could have ” 

“Cannot believe it! Bon Dieu! you tell 
that to me when you know that it is true, 
when you know — but I will leave you to tell 
us what you know, my son. I will leave you 
to remember that you are a servant of the 
Czar. You do not forget that, Captain 
Paul.” 

Bonzo’s voice rang out in varying notes, 
loud and accusing, or gentle and cooing. All 
the colour left Paul’s face when the words 
were spoken. He had a great awe of the man 
whose eyes could read his very thoughts; he 


PAUL BEARS WITNESS. 


II7 

began to ask himself, ‘‘ What has he learned? 
What has he seen? ” But Bonzo, who served 
a purpose with every word, now laid his hand 
upon the shoulder of the younger man and 
the gesture was a kind one. 

“ Come,” he said, “ I do not forget that 
you are a man as well as a soldier, Paul. Go 
and get your cafe and then meet me upon the 
quay. We will cross together, and you shall 
hear the story for yourself.” 

Paul thanked him incoherently and hur- 
ried away. The Colonel watched him as he 
went, and with no unfriendly eyes. 

‘‘ There goes a lover bewitched by a pretty 
face,” he said at last. “ He will come to rea- 
son by-and-bye, or, if he does not, we shall 
know how to deal with him. We will send 
him to the fort often. If there is anything 
more between them, that will be the oppor- 
tunity to find it out.” 

Content with this design, Bonzo resumed 
his measured walk; but Paul went swiftly 
through the town, avoiding the haunts of his 
fellows. He saw nothing, heard nothing of 
the awakening life about him. “ Marian is 


ii8 


KRONSTADT. 


arrested,” were the words ever whispered into 
his ear. Men saluted him, he, forgot to ob- 
serve or to return their greeting; the sun 
shone brightly, but for him the city was in 
darkness. “ They will send her to the mines, 
they will torture her,” he thought. The mo- 
ment when he must see her again was one to 
be dreaded. He feared his own courage, for 
he knew that his courage alone could save 
her — if she was to be saved — from the ter- 
rible days to come. 

It was eight o’clock when he arrived at 
the quay, and Bonzo had not yet come down. 
Paul entered a little cafe just by the mer- 
chants’ harbour, and called for tea and for 
‘ prune brandy. There were many soldiers and 
sailors in the place, but their talk convinced 
him that they had no news of that which had 
happened. He began to see that the author- 
ities would keep their acts as secret as pos- 
sible; but whether this would help or hinder 
him, he could not say. He remembered 
Bonzo’s words — if the prisoner should die in 
Fort Alexander, what inquiry would then be 
held? He knew that they would not put a 


PAUL BEARS WITNESS. 


II9 

woman to death; but Russian prisons have 
other weapons whereby the ends of death are 
attained. Paul’s hand shook when he lifted 
the glass to his lips; he left the cafe, driven 
on by all the impulses of fear and dread. 

She shall not die! ” he said, and then 
laughed nervously at his own helplessness. 

Fort Alexander, with its one hundred and 
sixteen guns, 8 and 10 inch, in casemates, is 
perhaps the most imposing of the seven de- 
tached forts which stand up, islets of steel and 
stone, in the southern channel of Kronstadt. 
Built entirely of granite, in the shape of an 
ellipse, there are four tiers of embrasures in its 
front; while its rear wall bristles with great 
guns en barbette. A foundation of piles driven 
down in a channel, here eighteen feet deep, 
carries the tremendous blocks of which the 
battery is constructed, and its guns are so 
placed that they cross fires with the guns of 
Fort Peter and of Battery 3, thus rendering 
impassable the one narrow channel by which 
an enemy’s ships must seek passage to Peters- 
burg. The interior of the fort has all the as- 
pect of a gloomy and forbidding prison. 


120 


KRONSTADT. 


Dark cell-like rooms accommodate the gar- 
rison in charge of it. There are other cells 
below into which the light of day never 
comes, tomb-like cavities hidden in the very 
womb of the citadel. Upon this morning of 
Marian’s trial, late in the month of February, 
the breaking ice scarred and groaned beneath 
the bastions of the fort, but the sappers had 
blasted a passage for the small steam launch 
with which the garrison reached the mer- 
chants’ harbour, and through this passage 
General Stefanovitch and two of his staff were 
carried to see the prisoner who had been ar- 
rested so surprisingly in the earlier hours of 
the morning. 

Paul was already in the vaulted stone 
chamber where the inquiry was to be held 
when Stefanovitch and Bonzo entered to- 
gether. The General answered his salute but 
did not speak. Bonzo exchanged a quick 
glance with him and then busied himself with 
the bundle of papers which seemed insepar- 
able from his equipment. So dark was the 
place that the figure of the sergeant at the 
door was like some phantom shape. The 


PAUL BEARS WITNESS. 


I2I 


feeble candles, flickering upon the table, cast 
a weirdly yellow light on the faces of those 
who sat within their aureola. Paul saw that 
Nikolai Stefanovitch looked wretchedly ill. 
The very neatness of dress and affectation 
of manner aggravated the pallor and unrest 
of his face. His hands wandered aimlessly, 
now touching a pen, now a paper, now seek- 
ing to straighten the hair which should have 
been upon the shining forehead. When he 
ordered the prisoner to be brought in, his 
voice was hollow and unnatural. He cast his 
eyes upon the table and did not look at the 
woman before him. Paul, in his turn, shrank 
back into the shadows. He saw Marian enter 
that gloomy chamber, and the impulse to 
speak to her, to stand at her side, was almost 
irresistible. But prudence kept him still. 
He had decided upon the part he would play; 
the keen air from the sea had stirpulated him 
mentally and bodily. He had said to him- 
self, “ I alone am her friend, and I will save 
her.” 

They had arrested the girl shortly after 

sunrise that none in the town might whisper 
9 


122 


KRONSTADT. 


abroad the business upon which she had been 
carried to Fort Alexander. So great was 
their haste that she had scarce time to bind 
up her untidy tresses of silky brown hair or 
to get furs against the cold of dawn. But 
she had used the intervening hours in win- 
ning from the sergeant permission to practice 
those arts which help a woman’s victory. 
Paul said that she never looked so pretty. 
She entered the gloomy room with a laugh 
upon her lips. The dainty head was thrown 
back disdainfully; the fur about her neck and 
wrists contrasted with the exquisite whiteness 
of her skin; her gesture was one of amuse- 
ment and of surprise. 

“ Oh,” she cried mockingly, “ comme je 
suis effraye, comme je me sens criminelle.” 

Stefanovitch looked up from his papers. 

‘‘ Silence,” he exclaimed sharply, and there 
was that in his voice which compelled obedi- 
ence. Paul trembled for her then. 

“ She will act a part, and they will con- 
demn her out of her own mouth,” he thought. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said Stefanovitch, begfin- 
ning to address her in a low voice, “ there is 


PAUL BEARS WITNESS. 


123 


no need for me to tell you why you are 
brought here; you are as well aware of the 
reasons as I am.” 

“ Indeed, General, I know nothing of your 
reasons.” 

The lines upon Stefanovitch’s face hard- 
ened perceptibly, but he did not display any 
anger. 

‘‘ We will not argue the point,” he said 
quickly. “ If I speak to you this morning, 
here in this room, it is in the hope that you 
will help us to lighten the punishment which 
your actions have deserved. For some 
months now you have been sending to the 
British Government in London such informa- 
tion concerning Kronstadt as our hospitality 
put you in possession of. Within the course of 
the last month you have sold for money a plan 
of Battery 3, and have prepared other plans 
which, but for our prudence and foresight, 
would now have left the city. It is not for 
me to tell you, mademoiselle, that these things 
are an outrage upon the hospitality you have 
received. You came here to us as a stranger, 
and we made you as one of our own people. 


124 


KRONSTADT. 


We trusted you as we should have trusted a 
daughter. It is possible that you are unaware 
of the heinous nature of your crime and are 
willing to atone so far as it is in your power. 
Should that be so, you have now the oppor- 
tunity to tell us how you came to do this 
thing, and whose was the help and the prom- 
ise you relied upon. The truth alone can 
help you here, mademoiselle. I rely upon 
your good sense and your cleverness to with- 
hold nothing from us.” 

He paused and looked the girl full in the 
face. She had ceased to laugh, for his accu- 
sation, that she had outraged the hospitality 
of those who had befriended her, was one that 
she could not jest with. 

“ I did not wish to be ungrateful,” she 
cried despairingly; “ I did not wish to injure 
or hurt any of those who have been kind to 
me. I drew the map to send to a friend in 
London; he asked me for it, and I did not 
think you would mind. It was such a little 
thing, and you are so strong. Oh, General, 
you will not judge me for that; you will not 
believe me guilty.” 


PAUL BEARS WITNESS. 


125 


Mademoiselle,” interrupted Stefanovitch 
sternly, “ of your guilt there is no doubt. Be- 
lieve me that it is idle for you to stand there 
and seek to mislead us. We do not imagine 
what you have done, we know.” 

'' You know, monsieur! ” 

‘‘We know,” repeated Stefanovitch; “ our 
chain of evidence is complete. Six months 
ago this friend of yours in London, your 
cousin, mademoiselle, told you that the Brit- 
ish Government was willing to pay a heavy 
price for such facts concerning the new forts 
here as it had been unable to find out for 
itself. He sent you, at the same time, the 
book which described how that other spy, 
your fellow-countryman, obtained the secrets 
of Vladivostok. That work was your guide. 
As the man had learned to measure a fort by 
pacing it, so you measured our batteries. 
You sought to make us believe in your igno- 
rance and your childishness that you might 
win our confidence and profit by the sale of it. 
You spied upon us while you were receiving 
our hospitality. You feigned friendship for 
us that we might betray our secrets to you. 


126 


KRONSTADT. 


You entered even my own cabinet to copy the 
maps which lie there. W as that also to amuse 
your friend in London, mademoiselle? ” 

Marian shivered. She turned toward Paul 
eyes which beseeched his help, but he stood 
silent. For a moment she sought still to 
wear the mask of indifference and of igno- 
rance, but the laugh froze upon her lips. 

“ It is not true! ” she exclaimed wildly; 
'' you cannot know that. I did not steal the 
maps in your cabinet. How could I have 
done so? It is a foolish tale.” 

Mademoiselle,” said Stefanovitch, rais- 
ing his hand warningly, ‘‘ there is no need to 
add to your guilt by falsehood. I am waiting 
to hear that you are willing to tell us the 
names of your friends both in Russia and in 
England.” 

“ I will tell you nothing,” she answered 
doggedly. “ You know nothing. The false- 
hood is yours, monsieur. . You have no right 
to bring me here. I am an Englishwoman; 
you dare not harm me! I will write to Eng- 
land. You are cowards to torture me with 
these questions.” 


PAUL BEARS WITNESS. 


127 


She clasped her hands together and 
stamped her foot angrily, for excitement had 
mastered her, and, having robbed her of her 
arts, had left the woman, weak and resource- 
less, but with courage undaunted. As for her 
lover, the accusation with which she was 
charged stunned him. They were the very 
words she herself had spoken in the privacy 
of her own room when he had discovered her 
secret fifteen hours ago. There was no 
longer a loophole for him. I must tell all, 
for they know all,” he argued. And yet his 
pity for her was an agony. Her childishness, 
her helplessness, the days of suffering await- 
ing her, prompted him to dare everything, to 
take her in his arms and ask that he might 
suffer with her. When anon he heard his 
own name called, and must come out into the 
light to answer the questions of the General, 
his tongue, his limbs, seemed paralysed. He 
spoke in a thick voice and swayed often 
against the slight table. 

“ Captain Zassulic,” said Stefanovitch, 
you have heard this woman’s story. Have 
you anything to say to it? ” 


128 


KRONSTADT. 


Paul squared his shoulders. He dare not 
look at Marian; the figures around seemed 
unreal and shadowy. 

‘‘ I have heard the story, my General,” he 
stammered. 

'' Is it true or false. Captain? ” 

“ It is false, my General.” 

‘‘You are sure of that? Then please to 
give us your reasons.” 

Paul leaned against the table and put his 
hand to his throat as though to compel him- 
self to speak. 

“ Last night you sent me to your room. 
General, to leave there the despatches from 
the Prince. It was at eight o’clock — after 
you had dined — at eight o’clock, my Gen- 
eral.” 

He wiped his brow with his hand and 
stared about the room in a dazed way. For 
a moment his eyes rested on the face of the 
girl. She was looking at him as she would 
have looked at one risen from the dead to 
accuse her. 

“ Well,” said Stefanovitch, “ we are wait- 
ing for you. Captain.” 


PAUL BEARS WITNESS. 


I2g 

Paul squared his shoulders again. He be- 
gan to remember that the words which now 
condemned the woman might save her in 
the end. 

“ When I entered the corridor,” he said, 
speaking quickly, “ there was a light in the 
room. General; the Englishwoman was there. 
She was copying one of the maps which she 
had taken from the shelf.” 

“ To amuse her brother in London,” 
grunted Bonzo, who had stood hitherto, 
motionless and voiceless, at the side of his 
master. 

But Marian did not hear him. She had 
fallen in a swoon, and, senseless still, they car- 
ried her back to her cell. 

“ Pshaw! ” said old Bonzo, folding up his 
papers quickly, “ we waste time, my General. 
If I were in your shoes I would flog the truth 
out of her. She is not alone here, be sure. 
There are others.” 

“ It shall be your work to learn their 
names. Colonel,” cried Stefanovitch, rising 
from the table. ‘‘ Stand at nothing which 
your duty dictates. And to you, Captain, I 


130 


KRONSTADT. 


would say that the Emperor is happy in such 
servants. Let the woman be watched night 
and day. I count upon you, my friends, in 
this hour of danger, upon your zeal and your 
silence. Our honour is at stake, and we shall 
know how to guard it.” 

He saluted and returned to his launch; 
but old Bonzo lingered a moment to whisper 
a word in Paul’s ear. 

'' There were two prisoners this morning, 
my son,” he said, with a kindly pat of his 
great hand, “ two prisoners, but one is ac- 
quitted.” 

‘‘ You mean, my Colonel ” 

‘‘ That the woman was watched last night, 
and that the words you have just spoken 
saved your life.” 

He lurched from the room to join his 
chief, but Paul remained long standing by 
the table where the damning words were 
spoken. 

“ She will never believe,” he thought. “ I 
have lost her love. God help me! ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


AFTER FORTY DAYS. 

The iron hand of winter relaxed its grip 
upon Kronstadt when the last bitter winds of 
March had exhausted themselves. Gentle 
breezes followed upon the devastating gales; 
trees blossomed generously as the snow sank 
through the face of the land, and the grass 
lifted its head again. No longer was the sea 
imprisoned nor the ships that had wintered 
in the merchants’ harbour. Marian, awake 
through long nights in her cell at Fort Alex- 
ander, could hear the waves gambolling in 
their new-found freedom or surging heavily 
against the granite walls with which the vast 
fort opposed them. There were even days 
when a kindly ray of sunlight came down 
through the barred windows and shone upon 
the icon set up in the corner of the dungeon. 

131 


132 


KRONSTADT. 


Marian welcomed these days, though her wel- 
come was not without a certain pathos. She 
remembered that it was spring-time in Devon- 
shire and that the child was alone. An in- 
tense longing for the freedom of the lanes and 
the perfume of the flowers possessed her. It 
was not that the intended discomforts of the 
cell galled her, for she was schooled now to 
privation and to suffering; she had made up 
her mind to pay the penalty which was the 
guerdon of her rashness. But the thought 
that she was never to hear little Dick’s voice 
again, that he was dependent now upon char- 
ity for the very food he ate, drove her almost 
to madness. She had been forty days in pris- 
on; she asked herself how it would be when 
days had become years. 

Few visited her cell in those first hours of 
silence. They had sent a woman from the 
Governor’s house to wait upon her, and she 
had seen the sergeant once or twice, though 
he had never spoken to her. But old Bonzo 
came nearly every day and brought always 
the same promise. 

'' Tell us the truth, mademoiselle,” he 


AFTER FORTY DAYS. 


133 


would say, “ and it will be well with you. 
There is a room in Fort Katherine where you 
can see the sun and watch the ships upon the 
sea. You shall go there when you are sen- 
sible. But first we must know the names of 
those who helped you — your friends in Kron- 
stadt, your friends in London. You cannot 
save them by silence. We shall catch them 
sooner or later; we shall know how to reward 
you when you help us in the attempt.’’ 

1 have no friends,” she would answer. 

I have told you truth. I was poor, and 
they tempted me. I can tell you nothing 
more.” 

Bonzo would lose his temper at this, and 
threaten her, but her courage remained un- 
broken. 

“You shall have the whip, and we will 
see what you can tell us then,” he would 
cry. “ Do you think to defy us, made- 
moiselle? Sapristi! I could crush you with 
my fingers.” 

“ They are large enough, monsieur,” she 
said simply. 

Bonzo would leave the cell and slam the 


KRONSTADT. 


134 

door after such a scene. He had hesitated 
until this time to carry out any of the threats 
he uttered so glibly. He did not forget that 
Marian Best was an Englishwoman; that the 
day might come when her story would be 
made public. But he left nothing undone 
which could appeal to the natural weakness of 
the woman; and there was a morning when 
she was carried up to see a man flogged in 
the courtyard of the fort. The lash falling 
brutally upon the bare flesh seemed to cut her 
own shoulders; the screams and groans of the 
wretched victim were so many appeals for 
her merciful intercession; she swooned when 
she saw the blood flow, but her answer to 
Bonzo was unchanged. 

You are cowards here,” she said, “ and 
you are not clever in your cowardice! You 
do not know the truth when you hear it. And 
you have no manners, monsieur. Oh, you do 
not frighten me at all. I laugh when you 
look like that. If you could only see your- 
self, you would laugh too.” 

She bore herself bravely indeed ; but when 
the iron door groaned upon its hinges, and 


AFTER FORTY DAYS. 


135 


she was left alone, and no sound but the surg- 
ing of the sea against the bastions was borne 
in to her from without, she would sink down 
upon the bed, and tears and wretchedness 
would conquer her. She had no longer a 
friend in all the world, she said. Her love for 
Paul struggled for a while bravely against the 
damning testimony he had given in the coun- 
cil-room. She was clever enough to think 
that possibly some deep and hidden meaning 
was behind his words; but when the days 
passed and he did not come, when 'no mes- 
sage, no word from him reached her, the well 
of her love began to be dried up; she ac- 
counted him her friend no more; she was, 
in spirit and in thought, a broken-hearted 
woman. 

The morning of the fortieth day dawned 
generously, for there was a gift of April sun- 
shine in her room and the gaunt stone walls 
were touched with its warming glow. Marian 
awoke at daybreak, and being permitted to 
walk for an hour upon the ramparts — a con- 
cession made to her but thrice in the weeks 
of her imprisonment — she beheld the town 


136 


KRONSTADT. 


again and wondered that the sun of spring 
could so transform it. Even the grim shapes 
of the barracks were softened by the splen- 
dour of the morning light. She could dis- 
tinguish the gilded domes and minarets of the 
churches; the cramped yet picturesque houses 
huddled about the merchants’ harbour; the 
masts of ships in the docks; the stately hulls 
of ironclads and cruisers; could hear the blasts 
of bugles, the shrill piping of whistles, the 
clank of the great hammers at the arsenal. 
But the sunshine touched every outstanding 
object with its transforming rays. The muz- 
zles of the great guns, peeping from the tre- 
mendous mole of the island, were capped with 
gold; there were flashes of fire upon all the 
bright places of the ships; the sea sparkled 
and foamed and rolled merrily over the silver 
shallows of sand. She could perceive the In- 
grian coast and the woods creeping down to 
the water’s edge; it was for her an emblem 
of the life she had lost. The very beauty of 
the morning awoke in her that intense 
longing for liberty which is the swift pun- 
ishment of the prisoner. Everywhere the 


AFTER FORTY DAYS. 


137 


new day spoke of life and work and the 
‘gladness of being; but for her it had no 
message. 

The short hour passed all too swiftly. 
She returned to her cell at seven o’clock and 
to the meagre repast prepared for her. She 
asked herself, while she drank the welcome 
tea and ate the coarse bread, if Bonzo would 
come again upon that morning to threaten 
her or cajole her as he had threatened and 
cajoled so often. An inconquerable spirit of 
mischief prompted her to tell him some fool’s 
tale with which he might occupy himself for 
a season. When someone knocked at the 
door presently, she made sure that this was 
her opportunity, and began to rack her brains 
for a plausible story. But the door was 
opened and the man who entered was not 
Bonzo. 

“ Paul ! ” she cried, and then stood silent 
and wondering. 

Her lover, for a truth, stood before her. 
She saw that he was dressed in the full uni- 
form of a captain of artillery — the green tunic 

with the scarlet epaulets and the scarlet and 
10 


KRONSTADT. 


138 

black facings, the pipe-clayed belt, the high 
black boots, the fur cap with the golden eagle 
for its crest. But his face wore deep lines 
which had not been there at the carnival, and 
the hand which rested upon the hilt of his 
sword was thin and white. For an instant 
he could not find his tongue. He stood rock- 
ing upon his heels as his habit was, while he 
sought vainly for some word which might 
give his tongue release. 

Marian had risen from her seat as he en- 
tered, and when her first cry of wonder had 
escaped her she was quick to take pity upon 
him. Instinctively she had hidden the plate 
of coarse bread behind her cup that he might 
not see of what kind her food was; instinc- 
tively, too, she touched her wind-blown curls 
with her fingers and looked down at the shab- 
by dress she wore. 

'' It is you, then,” she said, with a poor 
attempt at gaiety. ‘‘ I might have known 
that no one else in Russia would knock at my 
door.” 

Paul did not answer her. He was staringf 
at the wretched furniture of the cell. He 


• AFTER FORTY DAYS. 


139 

shivered as though the cold of the granite 
walls had struck his own heart. 

My God! ” he cried; “ is this your new 
home, Marian? ” 

She expected that he would begin to ex- 
cuse himself, and to tell her why he had been 
a witness against her in the council-room. 
His pity for her was an enemy of her resolu- 
tion to hide the truths of her misfortune from 
him. 

“ Yes,” she said, standing defiantly with 
her back to the wall; ‘‘ I am always at home 
here — to mv friends. You need not ask me 
if I have a day. I shall be glad — no, do not 
touch me — I am quite strong — Paul ” 

How it was she knew not, but when next 
she opened her eyes PauFs arms were about 
her and she was held close in his strong em- 
brace. The tears still glistened upon her 
cheek, but they were tears of gladness. 

“ Beloved,” he said, “ do not wound me; I 
suffer too — oh, God knows! Every hour has 
been an hour of pain since they took you 
away; there has been no sunshine for me, no 
day, no night; my life has stood still; I have 


140 


KRONSTADT. 


lived in the darkness; my eyes have seen no 
image but the image of her I love. Marian — 
you will not turn from me now? ” 

He held her closer for the passionate 
words to be whispered into her ear; nor did 
she restrain him. The long hours of loneli- 
ness were remembered too well that this new 
love should not win her gratitude. 

^‘You told them,” she sobbed; ‘‘it was 
your word. They knew nothing until you 
spoke. If I suffer, it is by your hand; your 
love for me has brought me here. How can 
I believe ” 

The reproach was choked suddenly upon 
her lips. The arms which held her trembled 
as with cold. She looked into the face of 
the man, and the pain written upon it turned 
her anger to pity. 

“ No, no, Paul — do not listen to me,” she 
cried in turn, clinging to him. “ It is not 
true. Oh, I am not changed; I am only 
weak, and ill, and lonely. Tell me you are 
my friend; tell me you will help me! ” 

His answer was to kiss her again and 
again upon the forehead and the lips. 


AFTER FORTY DAYS. 


I4I 

“ I am your friend always, little Marian. 
Would to God I could promise as you wish! 
How shall I help you here — in this place? It 
cannot be. You have made them your ene- 
mies, and they do not know how to for- 
give. I am the servant, and it is my duty to 
obey.” 

She looked up at him, and smiling now 
through her tears. 

“ And you have obeyed. Oh, I under- 
stand,” she said quickly. “ When you spoke 
against me I knew that you must speak. 
Paul, I do not love you less because of that 
— how could I?” 

She kissed him prettily, but a flush of 
shame coloured his face, for he remembered 
how much fear for himself had prompted his 
confession in the council-room. It was upon 
his tongue to make a full confession to her, 
for his simple honesty rebelled at her generous 
confidence; but she began to speak of other 
things, and chiefly of the terrible forty days 
which had passed. 

‘'You did not come,” she said, “and I 
counted the hours. Then I said you would 


142 


KRONSTADT. 


never come, or that you were ill. Paul, you 
have been ill — your eyes tell me that.” 

She held his face between her hands that 
the sunlight might fall upon it, but he 
shrugged his shoulders indifferently. 

“ It was nothing,” he answered; “ noth- 
ing at all. The work has been heavy, and I 
am tired — I do not sleep. It will be better 
when the summer comes.” 

He did not tell her that for ten davs after 
they had arrested her he had been at the point 
of death, and was newly risen from a bed of 
sickness to visit the fort. Nevertheless, a 
woman’s instinct guided her unerringly. 

“ Oh, my love, my love, if I had foreseen 
all — if I had told you of my folly and my 
trouble! And now it is too late; you suffer 
when you should forget. Oh, you must for- 
get, Paul; forget that I ever came to Kron- 
stadt; forget that you were my friend! ” 

He laughed brusquely. 

“ Shall I forget that I live, or that the sun 
shines? ” he asked. “ Shall I forget that your 
freedom is to be won, that we are both upon 
the threshold of our lives? No, for a truth, 


AFTER FORTY DAYS. 


143 


such things are not to be forgotten. Let us 
ask ourselves, rather, how the folly is to be 
undone, how our enemies are to be made our 
friends. It is because I believe in the possi- 
bility of these things that I am here this morn- 
ing. If I can help you, Marian, it will be by 
telling them the truth as you have told it 
to me? ” 

There was a question in his words, the un- 
spoken thought that she had hidden some- 
thing from him. 

“ Paul,” she said earnestly, “ you know 
that I have told you all as I have told it to 
them. I have no friends in Kronstadt, none 
in London. What I did was for the sake of 
the child. You see how it has helped him, 
when they will not even let me write to him 
now.” 

“ They will not let you write! You have 
asked them, then? ” 

“ God knows, I have asked them on my 
knees. You do not know what humiliations 
they have put upon me here. I hope that you 
will never know.” 

Paul laughed again. She looked up at 


144 


KRONSTADT. 


him with startled eyes, but he held both her 
wrists and pushed her from him that he might 
watch her while he spoke. 

You think that little Dick has had no 
message? ” he asked. 

How could he? ” she exclaimed, though 
a suggestion of the truth began to dawn 
upon her. 

You think that he will write to you no 
more? ’’ continued Paul, with a child's pleas- 
ure in his words. 

A smile lighted her face. 

“Tell me!” she cried; “do not torture 
me!” 

Laughing still, he released her hands and 
took a letter-case from his pocket. His thin 
fingers trembled while he fumbled with the 
many scraps the case contained, but at last 
he found a paper scrawled over with a child’s 
writing. 

“ There,” he said, laying the scrawl upon 
the table, “ that is how little Dick forgets tO' 
write.” 

He turned away and walked to the door of 
the cell, a subtle delicacy forbidding him to 


AFTER FORTY DAYS. 


145 


watch the tears upon the blotted paper or to 
listen to the half-spoken words of love and 
gratitude. Almost his first thought on the 
morrow of the dreadful day, when he had seen 
the soldiers at the Governor’s house, was one 
for the child for whom this sacrifice was made. 
And now he reaped his reward. 

Dick shall write every week,” he said, 
and I shall be your mouthpiece. Do not be 
afraid; I have planned it all, and he will learn 
to call me brother. Are you not glad, little 
girl?” 

I love 3^ou,” she said simply. “ I am 
lonely no more, for your love shall be with me 
always.” 

The footsteps of a sentry in the court with- 
out forced them apart, and Paul began to re- 
member again the purpose with which he had 
been sent to Fort Alexander. 

“ I am come here to question you,” he 
said; “ we must not forget that. They think 
that you have friends, but I shall tell them all, 
and then we shall see. They must not keep 
you in this place. I will not rest until you are 
at Fort Katherine. I will see the General at 


146 


KRONSTADT. 


once; he shall know how it is, and he will not 
refuse me. Oh, you are to be lonely no more, 
Marian — that day is past. We will begin the 
summer together, and it shall be our summer 
always. The sun will shine upon us and we 
will forget the shadows.” 

‘‘You make me forget them already, 
Paul,” she answered; “ it is summer for me 
now. I am happy even here when I know 
that to-morrow will bring you to me 
again.” 

“To-morrow and all the to-morrows,” he 
said cheerily. “ I will find a way to be sure; 
there is no door which my love for you shall 
not open; no night so dark that I shall not 
see the brightness in your eyes; no day so 
silent that I shall not hear your voice. God 
guard you, little girl, and give you back to 
me! ” 

He stooped once more to kiss her and 
went from the room quickly that he might 
say nothing which should awake her from this 
new dream of content. There had been a ray 
of sunlight in the cell, but when he was out 
upon the sea again it seemed to him that the 


AFTER FORTY DAYS. 


147 

sun shone no more and that darkness lay upon 
the land. 

“ God help me! how could I tell her the 
truth? ” he thought. “ They will send her to 
the capital and I shall see her no more.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 

The launch crossed the narrow channel 
between Fort Alexander and the mainland 
swiftly. Paul did not linger in the town, but, 
full of his promise to Marian, he went straight 
to the Governor’s house to seek the General. 
He found Stefanovitch in his private cabinet, 
and was welcomed with a questioning move- 
ment of the eyebrow which meant, “ Well, 
why are you here? ” 

“ I come to tell you that I have been 
to the fort, my General, and have seen the 
prisoner.” 

Stefanovitch put down his pen and turned 
in his chair. Though it had been a month of 
swift anxieties, the master of Kronstadt 
showed no trace of them either by careless- 
ness of dress or weariness of face. He was 
148 


OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 


149 


as well groomed and dainty in his personal 
adornment as when last he had racked his 
brains for compliments which should win the 
favour of his governess. 

“ You have been to the fort! ” he said, 
fixing his glass that he might study Paul’s 
face. “ By whose order was that? ” 

‘‘ By the Colonel’s order, my General.” 

Stefanovitch nodded his head two or three 
times. 

“ He sent you there to question the 
woman? ” 

“ He thought that she would tell me 
things which she would not tell to others,” 
exclaimed Paul, speaking eagerly. “ I have 
been — that is, I call myself her friend.” 

A smile crept over Stefanovitch’s face. 
He nodded his head again, as though he un- 
derstood perfectly. 

“You called yourself her friend!” he 
repeated, as though weighing the words. 
“ But that is a role you play no longer. 
Captain.” 

“ I am the friend of none who is the 'ene- 
my of my country,” said Paul stolidly. “ It 


150 


KRONSTADT. 


is because I do not believe Mademoiselle Best 
is our enemy that I come here now.” 

But the documents, the plan which she 
sent to London? ” exclaimed Stefanovitch 
testily. 

“ She did not understand — she did not 
know what she was doing, General. She 
made the map because her relations in Lon- 
don offered her money. She did not think it 
was a crime. I have questioned her, and I 
know that she has told you all. There is 
nothing to find out now. The man to be 
punished is he who asked the woman to do 
such work. If he were in Russia ” 

Stefanovitch laughed a little hardly. The 
instinctive gesture which had carried the 
young soldier’s hand to the hilt of his sword 
was not lost upon his chief. 

‘‘ But he is not in Russia, and he will be 
too wise to come here. When you want to 
cut his throat, you must go to London and be 
hanged by a judge in a black cap afterward. 
That is how they reward one who defends 
his honour — la-bas! And they call us bar- 
barians! But I am waiting to hear more of 


OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 


151 

your visit to Alexander. The woman has 
spoken to you? She has made a confession, 
possibly? ” 

“ She has told nothing but that which she 
told to you in the council-room, General. A 
child could see that she spoke the truth. I 
would stake my life upon it.” 

Stefanovitch regarded him with some 
amusement. He knew perfectly well whence 
came this earnestness surpassing the earnest- 
ness of the advocate. As a principle Nikolai 
Stefanovitch loved all women, but he could 
not understand the worship of the unit. Mar- 
ian had amused him when she was at his 
house. Another governess would take her 
place in a day or two, and she would amuse 
him too. But that he should disturb him- 
self at the change was a possibility to be 
laughed at. 

‘‘ You value your life at a low price 
when you stake it on a woman’s word,” he 
said. 

Upon the word of some, true, my Gen- 
eral; but not upon the word of Mademoiselle 
Best. He is a foolish man who cannot tell 


152 


KRONSTADT. 


when a woman is lying to him. This one 
has never lied; the truth is written in her 
eyes.” 

And you have been reading it there. 
Ho, ho! I must send this book to the Censor. 
He will tell me if it is good for my officers to 
read a work like that.” 

He leered pleasantly, delighting in the em- 
barrassment of the younger man. There was 
no purpose either in his questions or his as- 
sumption of curiosity. Those at Kronstadt 
knew now the whole of Marian Best’s story. 
Their perplexity was the difficulty of keeping 
that knowledge from Petersburg, and of sav- 
ing themselves from the charge of negligence 
which might be brought against them. This 
perplexity was helped by the presence of the 
prisoner at Fort Alexander. They hesitated 
to send her to the capital. They feared that 
her story would be made public by some pry- 
ing Englishman, and that unpleasant revela- 
tions would follow. And this thought was in 
Stefanovitch’s mind when he asked — 

'' Have you told Bonzo that which you 
are telling me? ” 


OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 


153 


“ I have told him nothing, my General.” 

“ And why not? ” 

“ Because I wished first to speak to you; 
I wished you to know that the prisoner is ill. 
They have put her in the south cell, and they 
give her black bread to eat. God knows, I 
did not like to see that when I spoke to her. 
She hid the bread behind her plate. General. 
She did not complain, but I could see many 
things. They are starving her, and she will 
not live long. Oh, she is so little and help- 
less; she has not meant to harm us. I said 
that I would speak to you, for you could know 
nothing of what has been done. I said that 
you would hear me, and remember that she is 
an Englishwoman, and have her taken to Fort 
Katherine. The Colonel would not under- 
stand. I could not speak to him; but with 
you it is different. You will listen to me; 
you will not forget that she has been the 
friend of your children. Kronstadt will gain 
nothing by this woman’s death. She would 
suffer eternal shame if her story were known 
in England. And it will be known — I am 
sure of that. The English spies are every- 


KRONSTADT. 


154 

where. Someone will tell them that we have 
a prisoner at Alexander and that she is dying. 
They will say that it is your act — you, who 
are the father of the city and have won the 
love of your children. My General, you will 
send her to Fort Katherine; you will not re- 
fuse me this.” 

His earnestness surprised even Stefano- 
vitch, who had always regarded him with an 
affection which lost nothing from the indis- 
pensable formality of their rank and duty. In 
all the years he had known him the General 
had never seen Paul so moved or so eloquent 
of purpose. For his own part, he disliked 
eloquence and all that disturbed the easy 
ripple of his life; but his affection for the 
younger man came to his aid now, and there 
was added to the force of it that warning word 
which Bonzo had forgotten to speak. Ste- 
fanovitch said to himself that Paul was right. 
They were dealing with an Englishwoman. 
The political friends of an Englishwoman 
could be troublesome. 

“ Come,” he said, ‘‘ you speak like the 
woman’s brother — or lover, my friend Paul.” 


OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 


155 


Paul’s face flushed until it was crimson. 

“ I ask nothing for myself, General,” he 
said; ‘‘ that day is gone. But I speak as any 
honest man would speak when he sees a wo- 
man suffer.” 

“ And you think that this woman will 
cease to suffer when she is at Fort Kather- 
ine.” 

“ She will not cease to suffer, but she will 
live no longer in the darkness; she will not 
eat black bread; she will see the ships; she 
will hear men’s voices. Will Kronstadt be 
hurt because of these things. General? Oh, 
you know that she will not.” 

Stefanovitch’s glass dropped from his eye. 
For a moment his quick brain ran over the 
gamut of the possibilities. 

It would be for a few days at the most,” 
he said, while Paul began to tremble with the 
excitement of success. “ They will hear of 
her sooner or later at Petersburg; it may be 
that the police will wish to talk to her, and 
then our duty will be done. After that, my 
son — the deluge.” 

Fie took a pen in his hand and wrote an 


156 


KRONSTADT. 


order quickly. Paul watched him as a hun- 
gry man may watch one who sets food upon 
his table. 

Take that to Sergius,” said Stefano- 
vitch, when the order was written. “ Your 
English friend will be in Fort Katherine at 
sunset.” 


CHAPTER X. 

TEMPTATION. 

Paul left the Governor’s house with a 
light step. The sun shone for him again; 
the surge of the sea was sweet music for his 
ears; the green heights of the distant shores 
were a joy to his eyes. “ To-night/’ he said 
to himself, “ to-night she will leave Alexander, 
to-night she will eat white bread and see the 
sky again.” But more often the thought was. 
To-night she will be near me, she will think 
of me, she will know that I have spoken to 
the General.” 

He walked swiftly, holding the paper as 
he would have held a jewel, in the hollow of 
his hand. It was his purpose to seek out old 
Sergius and to make sure that the hardly- 
gained order was enacted without delay. 

This purpose carried him through the heart 

157 


1^8 KRONSTADT. 

of the town toward the arsenal. He had a 
cheery word and a nod for such of his friends 
as he passed; but he would stand to speak to 
none, and when he met Bonzo face to face in 
the great square he begrudged the minutes of 
delay. 

“ Sacre bleu! you walk like the devil!” 
said Bonzo, taking from his mouth a cigar as 
long as a pistol. “ Are you going back to 
Alexander, my son? ” 

Paul laughed and displayed the paper tri- 
umphantly. 

“ There is no more Alexander,” he said 
with fervour; “ she is to be at Fort Katherine 
to-night. I have the General’s order. He 
remembers that she is an Englishwoman, and 
he is wise.” 

Bonzo opened his cunning eyes. 

‘‘ Oh,” he said, it is that, then I thought 
there was something. So Nikolai is touched. 
Ho, ho! She has been on her knees to him. 
Now he will go on his knees to her. Quelle 
farce! ” 

Paul wondered if this man had ever known 
a moment’s love, or sympathy for a fellow- 


TEMPTATION. 


159 

creature; but he was careful to conceal his 
thoughts and to overlook the jest. 

“ The General is afraid of the English 
tongues,” he said simply. “ I think that he 
is right to be afraid. She is no criminal, my 
Colonel, and we are not a savage people. 
She will be just as safe at Fort Katherine, 
and we shall not suffer because she eats white 
bread.” 

Bonzo laughed. 

“ You should all wear petticoats! ” he ex- 
claimed boorishly; “ you should go to a nun- 
nery and mope and mew together. How 
shall such fellows be soldiers? ” 

He turned on his heel, for he remembered 
he was speaking of his chief; but as he re- 
sumed his walk he cried with a careful as- 
sumption of indifference: 

“ Mind you don’t run away with her your- 
self, Captain Paul; she is not in Fort Kather- 
ine yet! ” 

Paul stood still and choked the word 
which rose to his lips. He was about to 
resent with heat the suggestion that he 
could be guilty of this dishonour; but 


i6o 


KRONSTADT. 


Bonzo had already turned the corner of the 
square, and the younger man stood still 
to repeat the words of temptation again 
and again. 

She is not in Fort Katherine yet! ” 

Paul laughed and walked on. At a dis- 
tance of ten paces he stopped again, and be- 
gan to read the paper he had treasured so 
earnestly. 

‘‘ The Englishwoman to be removed at 
sunset, and to be delivered into the custody 
of Rothmister Siebenski at Fort Katherine. 

‘‘ Stefanovitch. 

‘‘At Kronstadt, April 19, 1895.” 

Paul read the paper three times. He 
turned it over and over, as though seeking 
for some name which should be written 
upon it. 

“ So,” he said to himself, “ he has forgot- 
ten to write the name of Sergius upon it. 
He who delivers this paper may carry the 
Englishwoman from Fort Alexander. The 
Captain will not be there at sunset; he will 


TEMPTATION. 

be in the cafe or at the barracks. The Ser- 
geant would not question my authority, since 
I come straight from the great house, and 
here is the General’s order. Holy God! what 
an idea! ” 

He continued his walk, but at a more 
rapid pace. The suggestion that Bonzo had 
thrown out jestingly began to haunt him. 
He heard a voice whispering: “ It is possible. 
She would suffer no more. She would lie in 
your arms. It would be your business to see 
that she did not betray Kronstadt. She 
would be your wife — the friend of Russia.” 

He laughed aloud as men will at the first 
swift advance of some triumphant temptation 
which they have the will but not the strength 
to resist. His hurried walk carried him from 
the square to the cafe, where he had drunk 
with Bonzo on that night of Marian’s arrest. 
He entered and called for a glass of absinth. 
Destiny, now busy with him, contrived that 
he should take a seat wherefrom he could 
look over the harbour and spy out his own 
little launch lying a biscuit toss from the quay. 
She had been a present to him from his kins- 


KRONSTADT. 


162 

man, Prince Tolma. They said that there 
was no faster yacht in all the Baltic; men 
pointed to her as the work of the great Yar- 
row, and wagered that she would outsteam 
the fleetest cruiser then lying in the roads. 
Paul spent most of his money upon this little 
ship. She was his toy, his plaything. He 
loved to steam in her to the islands of the 
Finnish shore, and there to camp for days at 
the zenith of the summer. He had a better 
knowledge of the Gulf than many a master 
mariner. Plis servant Reuben, the young 
Englishman sent out by the Yarrow people 
to tend the launch, was devoted to him heart 
and soul. “ He would be the very man for 
this,” Paul said to himself; “he would re- 
member that she is an Englishwoman.” And 
so he drank off his absinth and went out into 
the sunshine again. 

Kronstadt had begun to sweat with her 
day’s work then. The great hammers clanged 
unceasingly in the arsenal; the bellow of 
steam whistles echoed across the water; the 
cries of seamen, their oaths, their songs, filled 
the nearer harbour. Squadrons passed weary 


TEMPTATION. 


163 


from long drill; the courtyards of the bar- 
racks were full of troops hungering for dinner; 
launches steamed swiftly between the outlying 
forts and the mainland. Paul remembered 
that this tumult of the active life was very 
dear to him. He loved Kronstadt as a child 
loves its home. He looked across the sea to 
the granite walls and to the guns shining as 
silver in the blaze of sunlight, and he asked 
himself how it would be if he were cut off 
from this iron home for ever, branded as a 
traitor, spoken of with curses, the mock of 
those who had honoured him. 

‘‘Bah!” he said, “that day will never 
come. I shall deliver the paper to Sergius; 
he will take a file of men and conduct the 
prisoner to Fort Katherine. I must do my 
duty. I am a servant of the Czar. I will for- 
get that she has loved me.” 

But as he walked the voice of the tempter 
spake again. 

“ Reuben is down there upon the quay. 
He would have steam up in your yacht by 
sunset. You could find a few drunken artil- 
lery men to act as your file. It would be a 


164 


KRONSTADT. 


long time before they would discover your 
flight. She would be a wife to you — the wo- 
man you love.” 

He cursed the tempter, but called to his 
man Reuben, and was answered. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE BEGINNING OF THE FLIGHT. 

Marian in her cell could hear the bells 
of the ships striking the hours; and she would 
count them and wait to see if the harbour 
clock answered to their signal. There was 
little else to do through the long days of dark- 
ness, save it were to listen to the cries of the 
seamen as they warped their ships to the 
buoys or exchanged a word with one of the 
sentries at the fort. Until this time her jailers 
permitted her no other occupations. Design- 
edly, that she might become acquainted with 
the whole meaning of imprisonment in a for- 
tress, they kept her hands idle and shut the 
daylight from her eyes. She thought some- 
times that she would lose her reason for very 
dread of the silence and the darkness. Or 
she would succumb to the frenzy of the pris- 

165 


KRONSTADT. 


1 66 

oner and be tempted to beat upon the door 
with her fist, or to dash herself against the 
granite walls, seeking thus an escape from 
the living death. But upon the day of Paufis 
visit a new sense of resignation possessed her. 
The man’s great love, surpassing all she had 
imagined, spoke to her still when he had 
quitted her cell; she heard his voice again 
bidding her to be of good courage; she had 
kept the letter which little Dick had written 
and tears of affection sealed the childish 
words. She asked herself what craven spirit 
had mastered her, that she should be the vic- 
tim of this weakness and despair. They had 
accounted her a woman of unfailing nerve; 
no shackles of cowardice had hampered her 
will during those months of excitement when 
the had filched the secrets of Kronstadt one 
by one; had measured the forts, and counted 
the guns, and cried with delight at the suc- 
cesses she numbered. She determined to re- 
member those days and to live them again. 

“ I will not show him that I suffer,” she 
said; ‘'he shall find me laughing when he 
comes here to-morrow. And he shall write 


THE BEGINNING OF THE FLIGHT. 167 

to Dick for me — a long letter about our home 
that is to be. After that he will speak to 
them. They will not keep me here always. 
It was such a little thing.” 

This spirit of courage breathed upon all 
her actions of the day. She showed a smiling 
face to the Sergeant when he brought her 
dinner. Surrendering herself to childish an- 
ticipations, she began to think of a hundred 
things which Paul would do — how he would 
write to England, or see the Governor, or 
even go to the Czar for her. The hours hur- 
ried now, each bell telling her that her lover 
was up and working for her. To-morrow 
she would see him again. Perchance he 
would bring good news. At least she would 
touch his hand and hear his voice. 

They were wont to bring her a little sup- 
per at sunset — the boiling tea and the black 
bread which was as earth in her mouth. But 
she ate it to-night with relish; and when her 
supper was done she let her head sink upon 
her arms and so was carried away to a dream- 
land of wood and meadow, to gardens warmed 
with everlasting sunshine, and woods alive 


KRONSTADT. 


1 68 

with music of song-birds. Therein she walked 
a while, holding her lover’s hand; she heard 
voices long forgotten, the voices of dead 
friends and the laughter of the child. The 
sleep was sweet, for it was a sleep of hope 
new born and of courage rekindled; but when 
it had endured a little while, the harsh skirl 
of the outer door turning upon its hinges 
awoke her rudely. She opened her eyes to 
see the Sergeant standing before her, and 
with him rough artillery men in their great 
grey cloaks, and others who were strangers to 
her. She thought for the moment that they 
had come to take her to Petersburg, or even 
to the nameless punishment beyond. She be- 
gan to tremble, and stood back against the 
wall as though she would find protection there 
— the weak woman shrinking from the ter- 
rible hand which was about to touch her. 

“What is it?” she cried, while she 
shielded her eyes, dewed with sleep, from the 
garish rays of the lanterns. “ Why do you 
come here? what do you want with me? ” 

“To take you to Fort Katherine, made- 
moiselle, by order of the Governor.” 


THE BEGINNING OF THE FLIGHT. 169 

Marian clenched her hands; she scarce 
dared to believe what she heard. Paul had 
spoken, then; the night had passed; she 
would see the sun again. 

“ You wish to take me now? ’’ she asked, 
vainly seeking to cloak the excitement which 
possessed her. 

“ Now,” said the Sergeant gruffly — that 
is, if you have finished your supper.” 

She laughed joyously, as though the sug- 
gestion were a folly. 

“ Oh! ” she cried; “ as if one would wait 
for that I ” 

Her hands were busy with the cape of fur 
while she spoke, and when she had buttoned it 
about her shoulders and had drawn the little 
fur cap over her untrammelled hair, she was 
ready for them. The men watched her with 
admiring eyes. The youngest among them 
was saying to himself, “ What lips to kiss! ” 

“ I am ready, quite ready,” she exclaimed, 
looking up with eyes awake and laughing. 
'' You are sure it is to Fort Katherine, Ser- 
geant? ” 

The Sergeant shrugged his shoulders. 


KRONSTADT. 


170 

“ Sei tchas! are we here to play at being 
children, mademoiselle? Read that paper — 
it is the writing of the Governor.” 

“ I can read nothing to-night,” she said, 
pushing aside the lantern; “ my eyes are 
blinded by the light. I cannot breathe in this 
place. It is good of you to come for me.” 

“ It is not good at all, mademoiselle. I 
am the servant, and it is my business to obey.” 

He turned from the cell and the girl 
walked beside him still babbling like a child. 
No thought of prudence could have stilled her 
tongue in that hour. The burden of her pun- 
ishment fell from her shoulders when she 
quitted the cell and ascended the short flight 
of steps leading to the quay above. The 
mighty granite walls terrified her no longer. 
She could see the heaven above her, gray- 
blue through the silver haze of night; the 
stars shone down upon her; they would be 
shining down upon England, she said; and 
she would watch them every night henceforth 
from her windows in Fort Katherine. The 
joy of liberty half possessed quickened her 
heart and released all her impulses and affec- 


THE BEGINNING OF THE FLIGHT. lyi 

tion. She could have kissed the hand of the 
vSergeant who conducted her to the launch. 
She talked to him unceasingly while they 
traversed the corridor and the courtyard of 
the fortress; she was talking still when he 
threw open the iron-bound door and stepped 
out on to the quay which lies upon the north 
side of Alexandria. 

It was a glorious night, a night of soft 
winds and rippling sea. Though the sun had 
sunk, there was still a glow of crimson light 
in the West, a vast arc pointed with jagged 
spikes of orange and green and purple flame. 
Kronstadt herself stood silhouetted as an 
island of rock and pinnacles in an atmos- 
phere of quivering haze. Great ships, belch- 
ing clouds of smoke from mighty funnels, 
passed noiselessly behind the curtain of the 
eastern mists; lanterns flashed from all the 
forts, here white and far-reaching, there scar- 
let and dim; strange rays played upon the 
fretting waters; lakes of golden waves glis- 
tened where the warships spread the search- 
ing arcs of their lamps; the steam whistle 
moaned distantly or bellowed warningly from 


1/2 


KRONSTADT. 


the nearer harbours. The West was a splen- 
did canopy of flame hung in the heavens, as 
it were, above the throne of liberty and of 
freedom. 

Marian stood upon the quay and the fresh 
wind scattered her curls and cast refreshing 
spray upon her weary eyes. The scene 
around her was bewildering and not to be 
realised. She beheld a steam launch lying at 
the quay; she heard its timbers groaning as 
the swell lifted it against the granite wall and 
the fenders were flattened and twisted at the 
rush of the seas. But her eyes were rather 
for the West. There lay her own England. 
She could have stretched out her arms to the 
befriending light and have prayed that some 
messenger of God might come down to carry 
her from this tomb to which folly had brought 
her. 

‘‘ Oh,” she said, “ I am ready, quite ready. 
Sergeant. Is this the boat? ” 

The Sergeant ignored her question. He 
was bending down to speak to one who stood 
in the bows of the launch, a tall man wearing 
the rough overcoat of an ofiflcer of artillery. 


THE BEGINNING OF THE FLIGHT. 173 

Notwithstanding the light in the West, it was 
very dark in the loom of the walls of Alex- 
ander. Marian could see little of the faces 
of those about her. The flickering rays of the 
lanterns danced upon the white deck of the 
yacht, but not upon the figure of the man 
who seemed to command it. 

I am to go on board? ” she asked of one 
near her. ‘‘ Why have you brought me here 
if you are not ready? ” 

The soldier laughed good-naturedly. 

“We are quite ready, mademoiselle; it is 
the Captain for whom we wait.’’ 

“ The Captain? ” 

“ Yes, for Captain Zassulic, who is to take 
you to Fort Katherine.” 

She laughed in her turn, nervously and 
with the desire that surprise should not be- 
tray her. She did not dare, for some mo- 
ments, to look again at the little ship or at the 
tall figure now standing by the engine-room. 
But when she was sure of herself, when she 
had driven from her mind the wild thoughts 
that occupied it, she saw that the figure was 
the figure of Paul, her lover; and at this the 


174 


KRONSTADT. 


lights and the stars, the ships and the men, 
swam before her eyes, and she leaned heavily 
upon the arm of the trooper. 

“ Why do you keep me waiting? I am 
weak and cold,” she cried petulantly. “ I 
cannot stand here.” 

‘‘ Mademoiselle,” said the Sergeant, turn- 
ing to her, “ there is no need to keep you 
waiting any longer.” 

Marian suffered herself almost to be lifted 
upon the launch. So soon as her feet had 
touched the deck a strong hand seized her 
own and drew her towards the companion. 
It was the hand of Paul, hot and burning as 
the hand of one in a fever. 

“Let go! ” he cried to the engineer, speak- 
ing in a voice which rang across the sea; and, 
almost with the words, the ropes were cast off 
and the launch stood away from the quay. 

It was the work of a moment, so dexter- 
ously done, so unlooked for, that the Ser- 
geant stood staring stupidly as one dazed 
with drink. 

“ Stoi, stoi! ” he cried; “there are the 
others, my Captain.” 





“We shall know how to answer the general 


THE BEGINNING OF THE FLIGHT. 175 

I have no need of them. Do you think 
the girl is going to jump into the sea? ” 

“ But the General’s order, my Captain.” 
Paul laughed and took his place at the 
woman’s side. 

We shall know how to answer the Gen- 
eral. Good-night to you, Sergeant.” 

He cried again to the engineer and the 
little ship leaped into the waves. Foam flew 
from her bows and sparkled upon her decks. 
The whirr of her screw was as the whirr of a 
cascade thundering. The surrounding forts 
seemed to recede back to a more distant hori- 
zon. The lights of Kronstadt, the black 
shapes of barrack and church, were hidden in 
the deepening mists. Into the West, out- 
ward to the greater seas of the Baltic, the 
launch was bearing them. But the man con- 
tinued to keep his eyes upon the great citadel 
he was leaving, to look upon it as one may 
look upon a home which shall be a home no 
more. 

“ My God! ” he said, it is for ever! ” 
And so he turned to the girl as though to 
shield her with his arm. The lights around 


176 


KRONSTADT. 


him began to vanish one by one; the salt of 
the sea was on his face; he waited to hear the 
boom of the guns which should signal his 
flight and tell the city that he was a traitor 
— he who had served Kronstadt with an abid- 
ing love. 


CHAPTER XIL 

THE CITADEL AWAKES. 

Marian sat in the saloon of the Esmeral- 
da, and the saloon was in darkness. She still 
wore her pretty cap of fur, and the cape was 
unbuttoned upon her shoulders. Her impa- 
tient imagination told her that she had been 
a full hour in the cabin of the ship waiting 
for Paul to come to her. But no more than 
twenty minutes had passed since she had 
quitted her cell at Fort Alexander. The 
yacht was still running down the southern 
shore of the island; the great guns still threat- 
ened from the mighty ramparts. 

Until this time she understood nothing of 
her lover’s purpose or of the meaning of her 
journey. She believed that Paul was com- 
pelled thus to steer toward the open sea that 

he might come to Fort Katherine, which lies 

177 


178 


KRONSTADT. 


Upon the northern shore of the island. Little 
as she knew of ships, the tremendous vi- 
bration of everything around her, the rattle 
of glass, the swirl of the seas against the 
ports, spoke of high speed and freshening 
wind. It was her argument that they were 
making Tollboken, the great lighthouse at 
the western point of Kronstadt. The ship 
would put back presently and run down the 
northern shore to the new prison awaiting 
her. The sweet hour of liberty would be at 
an end; the door of a cell would close upon 
her again unpityingly. When the launch 
was not put about, but continued to hold its 
course for the Baltic, she could not under- 
stand why it was, and was puzzling her brains 
to think, when her lover entered the cabin 
brusquely with spray shining in crystals of 
salt upon his oilskins and the dew of the sea 
upon his cheek. He answered her unspoken 
question, but not as she wished him to an- 
swer it. 

‘‘ You have no fire and no light,” he said 
cheerily; “ and this is your welcome to the 
Esmeralda. Well, it will be better presently.” 


THE CITADEL AWAKES. 


179 

She took his wet hands and held them to 
her lips. 

Paul,” she cried, “ for the love of God 
tell me, what does it mean? Where am I? 
where are you taking me to? ” 

He kissed her upon the forehead very ten- 
derly. 

“ I am taking you to London — to your 
friends,” he said. 

Oh, you do not mean it,” she answered 
impatiently, “ you do not mean it, dearest. 

It is to Fort Katherine. I heard them say 
so.” 

“ If you think that I do not mean it, Mar- 
ian, come up to the deck with me and you 
will see the light of Tollboken. You had bet- 
ter come, for we shall never look at Kronstadt 
again.” 

He did not wait for her answer, but led 
the way to the companion and to the deck * 
above. When she stood there with him the 
wind blew so freshly and the spray so blinded 
her that she must cling to him for a while 
and cry that she could see nothing. But, 
anon, she got footing by the shrouds of the 


i8o 


KRONSTADT. 


mainmast, and from that place she looked 
over the gathering seas and beheld a great 
white light hanging, as a globe of fire, above 
the northern point of the island. She remem- 
bered that she had seen the light for the first 
time when she came to Russia to be governess 
to the children of Nikolai Stefanovitch. But 
now she was leaving it; the yacht had not 
rounded the point as she thought it would; 
it held a course straight for the open sea. 
She dare not ask herself what this course 
meant. 

“Well,” said Paul, “do you believe me 
now? Yonder is Tollboken. You are look- 
ing at it for the last time.” 

She began to tremble at his words. 

“ For the last time — and you? ” 

A shadow rested upon his face. 

“ Moi c/est egal. I am weary of Kron- 
stadt and of my friends there. I shall find 
new friends in England. Besides, I do my 
country a service since I take charge of one 
who has been her enemy. Tell me, little 
Marian, you will be the enemy of Russia no 


more. 


THE CITADEL AWAKES. i8i 

He drew her beneath the shelter of his oil- 
skins and kissed the lips upraised to his. But 
the girl was silent. She could not then meas- 
ure the sacrifice he had made so willingly. 
Of all the thoughts crowding upon her mind 
this thought predominated, that her lover had 
saved her from the living death. 

“ I do not understand,” she said at length, 
I do not know what you are saying to me. 
Oh, it is not true, Paul, it cannot be.” 

“ You shall tell me to-morrow whether it 
is true or not,” he answered merrily. “Mean- 
while, there is supper to think of, and after 
supper, rest. It is time that we lighted the 
saloon; you are tired, Marian.” 

She was about to tell him that her fatigue 
was only the fatigue of joy, when a flame of 
light leaped up from the shore of the distant 
islands, and the boom of a great gun rolled 
across the darkening seas like the rumble of 
approaching thunder. 

“ Hark! ” she said, starting involuntarily; 
“ they have fired a gun from Tollboken.” 

Paul turned impatiently. 

“ It is a captain’s salute, little girl.” 


i 82 


KRONSTADT. 


I think of the shadows again,” she ex- 
claimed with a shudder. And then she asked: 

“ Paul, whose yacht is this? ” 

‘‘ It is mine, Marian.” 

“ And you had the Governor’s permission 
to take me from Alexander? ” 

Certainly, or how could you be here 
now? ” 

He gave me my liberty, then? ” 

Paul laughed. 

“ You ask too many questions, Marian, 
and supper should be waiting.” 

A second gun fired from the ramparts of 
Tollboken arrested the laugh upon his face. 
He could conceal from her no longer the ter- 
rible dread which had possessed him since the 
yacht left Alexander. She read his secret 
upon his face; she knew that he had risked his 
life for the guerdon of her love. 

“ Paul,” she said, clinging to him now 
with a passionate gesture of reproach and 
gratitude, ‘‘ I understand all. Oh, God for- 
give me for bringing you to this! ” 

No,” he said, ‘‘ where you live I must 
live, Marian; where your home is, there must 


THE CITADEL AWAKES. 


183 


be my home. It could not be otherwise. 
Without you there is nothing for me — the 
sun does not shine, there are no stars at 
night. We will stand together for good or 
ill until the end, as God wills.” 

“ I am not worthy,” she answered through 
her tears. “ Oh, God knows, I am not wor- 
thy!” 

“ You will be my wife,” he said simply; 
‘‘ you will repay a thousand times.” 

A grinning face, appearing above the 
coamings of the engine-room hatchway, put 
them apart. It was the face of Reuben the 
engineer. 

^‘Well,” said Paul turning to him, “you 
wish to tell me ” 

“ That she is doing twenty knot^, sir.” 

“ She must do more. Spare nothing. 
We must burn the very ship if need be. Hark 
to that! It is the gun at Menzikoff, which 
means that the garrison is alarmed. We shall 
see the lights of their ships soon.” 

The grinning face disappeared, and anon 
thick smoke rolled from the funnel of the Es- 
meralda. She plunged with new speed into 


KRONSTADT. 


184 

the choppy, spuming waves which the fresh 
wind drove in from the Baltic. The water 
washed her bows and ran ankle-deep over her 
flush-decks. She had no lights save the glow 
which hovered above her funnel or spread fan- 
shaped when the furnace-door was opened. 
Every timber in her quivered at the heighten- 
ing speed. Not a man of the four aboard 
her but knew that this was a race for liberty 
— it might be for life. Yonder, through the 
northern darkness, lay freedom and reward; 
behind, where the guns made thunder of the 
night, were the prisons of Russia and the 
fields of Bondage. 

Their course lay almost due west for a 
while; and when they had been an hour at 
sea they* could discern the lights upon the 
Finnish shore no longer nor the twinkling 
stars which spoke of villages on the Ingrian 
coast. The Gulf broadened so quickly that 
they stood almost at once in the heart of the 
widening sea, in the channel of ships sailing to 
Russia or labouring to make Helsingfors. 
At one time a great ironclad loomed above 
them suddenly and passed so close that they 


THE CITADEL AWAKES. 


185 


could hear men calling to one another upon 
her decks. Or, again, they passed a Nor- 
wegian barque lubbering in the swell in a vain 
effort to sail within twenty points of the wind. 
These shapes loomed out of the dark for an 
instant to be lost immediately. Scudding 
white mists hid the moon fitfully as though 
relishing a jest with those who sought light 
on the earth below. Storm-clouds began to 
gather in the south and to beat up warningly. 
The night fell bitter cold and the wind was as 
a whip upon the face. 

'' Come, let us go down,” said Paul, who 
hitherto had been held to the deck as one 
chained there by the anticipation of advancing 
peril. ‘‘ I have tasted no food since midday; 
and you, little girl, I should be ashamed to 
keep you here.” 

“ My place is at your side, Paul.” 

‘‘ Then my side shall be in the saloon. 
And you shall give me my supper there. It 
will be time enough to think of other things 
when we see the lights of their ships.” 

You think that they will follow us? ” 

Is it possible not to think so? ” 

13 


» 


KRONSTADT. 


1 86 


They will send a cruiser? ” 
Undoubtedly; but we shall not mind 
that. There is no ship in Russia which can 
catch the Esmeralda while she has coal in her 
bunkers. And we have coal everywhere. 
Oh, it will amuse you well when the fun be- 
gins.” 

He entered the saloon and switched on 
the electric lights. The veils for the ports 
were ready now, and when he had covered up 
the glasses with them he gave the girl hot 
wine. 

You must drink it at a draught,” he 
said. “ I want to see the colour in your 
pretty cheeks.” 

“ Paul,” she said earnestly, “ how can I 
thank you? how can I tell you all I feel? ” 

‘‘ You can thank me by drinking the wine 
and afterward by eating your supper. You 
must say how you like the Esmeralda and her 
cook. She is my other self, this little ship. 
We have been friends many years, but not the 
friends we shall be to-night.” 

The steward, a portly, good-humoured, 
but, above all, fatherly man, known in twenty 


THE CITADEL AWAKES. 


187 


ports by the name of Sal, by reason of his 
ability to perform all woman’s work, now hur- 
ried into the cabin and set a steaming dish 
upon the table. 

A bit of beef, and cooked with my own 
hand, miss,” he said. I thought you’d be 
glad of it, and so I made bold.” 

She thanked him prettily. 

“ You come from London? ” she asked. 

A voluble man, her question was like oil 
upon his tongue. 

“ Indeed and I do, my miss. I was born 
at West ’Am, as my poor mother knows, and 
precious glad I shall be to see Hingerland 
again. It’s a dreadful thing to feel as you’re 
an ixile, miss. Fourteen years now it is since 
I clapped eyes on London. As for these Rus- 
sians, I can’t abide ’em.” 

Paul roared with laughter. 

“ Sapristi! ” said he, you’re a fine fellow 
to sign for a Russian ship.” 

A Russian ship? No, it ain’t that, sir. 
I had the word of Reuben afore I come 
aboard. ^ Where you like and when you 
like,’ says I, ' but no foringers for yours truly.’ 


i88 


KRONSTADT. 


And that’s what we signed upon. ^ As for 
the young gentleman,’ says I, ‘ he’s no Rus- 
sian, or what’s he doing with our lingo? You 
don’t find Joshua Sill sailing with foringers 
willing.’ Five times round the world, miss. 
I’ve been, believe me. But there ain’t no 
place like the country we was bred to, indeed, 
there ain’t.” 

His patriotism choked him with emotion, 
and he withdrew, still shaking his head. His 
talk had led them away for a brief moment 
from the hour and the place, and the shadows 
passed from their faces. It was possible, 
down there in the warmth and brightness of 
the pretty cabin, to imagine that they, too, 
were already upon the seas of liberty and 
safety ; to imagine that they had come to that 
kingdom of love and possession which they 
had sought in tears and tribulation and perils 
often. They began to talk with a new con- 
fidence; to promise each other what they 
would do when the sunny fields of Devon 
were theirs to roam and the white cliffs of 
England stood up for their defence. The 
spell of the warming wine worked upon them 


THE CITADEL AWAKES. 189 

SO that the man could tell himself that the 
reward was greater than the sacrifice; the 
girl, that love was at last born in her heart 
unquestionably, a love to endure, to over- 
shadow all, to be the very sap of her life. 
Lying there in her lover’s arms, the past, the 
future, the scene, the peril alike were forgot- 
ten. She lived in a present which was in 
itself an eternity — the eternity of love realised. 

In this employment of supper two hours 
passed swiftly away. Paul lingered in the 
cabin because he knew that the deck might 
show him that which he feared to see — the 
lights of the cruisers sent out from Kron- 
stadt or Helsingfors in pursuit of the Esmer- 
alda. Trusting to the quick eyes and to the 
devotion of his servant Reuben, he knew that 
they would summon him when need was that 
he should go above. The quiver of the 
boards beneath his feet, the jar of the glass 
upon the table, spoke of the high speed main- 
tained and of a smoother sea. Could they but 
keep the Esmeralda at such a speed she would 
outsteam .any vessel which Stefanovitch 
could command. The danger lay ahead — in 


190 


KRONSTADT. 


the warships at Helsingfors and at Revel. 
The telegraph could warn these that a launch 
was escaping from Kronstadt. The Esmer- 
alda had yet to pass the neck of the Gulf, yet 
to outwit those who would strain every nerve 
to take her. Folly alone helped Paul to hope 
in the midst of dangers such as these. Des- 
pair whispered that the girl he loved was in 
his arms, but that he touched her lips for the 
last time. 

“ Let us forget, Marian, let us forget all,’' 
he would cry; “ let us think only of to-night, 
and of each other.” 

“ I could never forget,” she answered with 
deep affection. “ I am unworthy of the love 
you bestow upon me; I shall be your servant 
until my death.” 

“ You shall be my wife! ” he cried passion- 
ately. “ I will hear your words all day. The 
days cannot be long enough. There shall be 
nothing to think of — no past, no future, but 
only the moment of our love. When to-mor- 
row comes we shall be where no Russian ship 
can harm us. It will be yours then to repay 
me, dearest, to remember whose servant I 


THE CITADEL AWAKES. 


I9I 

have been and why I left Russia. You will 
be the friend of my country as I shall be of 
yours. You will forget all that you learnt 
and saw at Kronstadt.” 

I have forgotten it already, Paul. Oh, 
I should be for ever guilty if I did not regret 
all that I have done and said, if I did not 
think of Russia as of my own country. How 
could it be otherwise since I love you? ” 

''They will tempt you,” he said; "they 
will offer you money as they offered it before; 
and I am poor, I have no longer an employ- 
ment. The home which I can give you must 
be one of your own cottages. My friends 
will not help me now; they will call me a 
traitor and forget my name.” 

She shrank at the words, for they rebuked 
her selfishness. She realised she had made 
him the partner of her guilt. 

" Oh, no, no, do not say that! ” she cried; 
" do not let me bring this shame upon you. 
Take me back to Russia, Paul; to-morrow it 
will be too late.” 

" It is too late now,” he said with a bitter 
smile. 


192 


KRONSTADT. 


The door of the cabin opened as he spoke, 
and the face of Reuben, still wearing the bu- 
colic grin, appeared unwelcomely. Paul ro^e 
at once. 

“ You have something to say to me, Reu- 
ben? ” 

“ It is about the coal, sir.” 

“ Then I will come immediately.” 

But to Marian he said — 

‘‘ You must sleep now, little wife. To- 
morrow we shall be in the Baltic and sunset 
will bring us to Stockholm. You can begin 
to think of England then.” 

She raised her lips to his and clung to him 
with a new tenderness. The words he had 
spoken, that his friends would call him a 
traitor, echoed again in her ears. She 
thought of them still when he had left her, 
and they were an enemy to sleep. The gift 
of sacrifice cut her heart; it poisoned the cup 
of forgetfulness she had tasted so willingly. 

But Paul hurried to the deck, and so soon 
as his feet had left the ladder he knew why 
Reuben called him. Away upon the port 
quarter a great arc of golden light was play- 


THE CITADEL AWAKES. 


193 


ing upon the sea. Now rising in a focus of 
dazzling beams, now skimming the water with 
a vast area of radiance, now shining full as a 
star new fallen from the heavens, the meaning 
of the light was not to be hidden from those 
on board the Esmeralda. The telegraph had 
done its work, A cruiser had put out from 
Helsingfors and was searching the Gulf for 
the yacht which sought to carry from Rus- 
sian waters secrets of such price. 

‘‘ God help my little wife! ” said Paul when 
he saw the light — and that was all. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


AT THE ZENITH OF THE NIGHT. 

The yacht stood upon a course almost 
due west. The lamps in her saloon burned 
no longer; she carried no light and showed no 
glow of flame above her funnel. Save for 
the vibrations of her screw and the buffet of 
the seas upon her arched bows, no sound fol- 
lowed in her wake. She cut the gathering 
waves rather than breasted them; she rushed 
onward through the swell as some living 
thing come up for breath or to the pursuit of 
prey. Until this time the arc of light which 
lay upon the sea as a golden carpet had not 
spread so far that its rays were shed upon the 
yacht. She stood out of it to the northward. 
Her crew watched its path with an excitement 
not to be described. Men clenched their 


194 


AT THE ZENITH OF THE NIGHT. 195 

hands when the great lamp swung round and 
their eyes were blinded by its fuller radiance. 
But darkness continued to befriend them. 
Save in that place where the great lantern 
gave gold to the waves, night reigned upon 
the sea. And night might yet deliver the 
Esmeralda if destiny willed. 

“ They are standing for the south, sir,” 
said old John Hook, who was at the wheel. 
‘‘ It’ll be in their heads that we’re running for 
the German coast — perhaps for the Baltic 
port. You’ll go by ’em yet with a handful of 
luck — I’m damned if you won’t! ” 

Old John, who had shipped for the trip 
willingly when he heard that an English- 
woman was to be snatched from a Russian 
prison, trusted to pick up at Stockholm his 
own brig, then at anchor in Kronstadt har- 
bour. The adventure was no more to him 
than an hour in the fog at the mouth of the 
Thames. 

‘‘ Stop you, sir! ” he had exclaimed. 

Why, there ain’t no ship in the Baltic as 
could catch yon bit of a kettle when she’d the 
mind to show her starn. x\nd if so be as they 


196 


KRONSTADT. 


do, why, ain’t there such things as counsels 
for to talk to ’em properly and show ’em 
what’s the colour of your flag? I’d spit on all 
the skippers in Roosher for a noggin of rum 
— damn me if I wouldn’t.” 

With this proper contempt for all foreign- 
ers and their ships (and a bundle containing 
a lace handkerchief, a photograph and a dirty 
shirt), John had come aboard the Esmeralda. 
The race from Kronstadt to the open Gulf 
had been a joy to him. Nor did this sudden 
appearance of a warship upon the horizon 
terrify him at all. The yacht had the heels of 
her. If they were taken, the English Consul 
at Kronstadt would shake his fist in the face 
of the Governor, he reasoned, and that would 
be the end of it. Paul shared nothing of such 
stolid optimism. The very darkness of the 
seas about him caused the great white light 
to stand out like some uncanny beacon set 
up to remind him that he was still in Rus- 
sian waters; that Kronstadt knew of his flight 
and of his purpose. 

“ She is running to the south, John,” he 
said gloomily, “ but it will not be for long. 


AT THE ZENITH OF THE NIGHT. 

For the matter of that she is going about 
now.” 

John touched the little wheel and spat em- 
phatically. 

That’s true, by thunder! ” he cried; “ but 
what of it, sir? It’ll be a pretty steady hand 
that picks us off in this light; and we’ve the 
heels of her, all said and done. You take my 
word for it, if they’re waiting to take us afore 
they turn in they won’t finish this watch until 
the day of judgment.” 

Paul smiled. 

You English have a pleasant way of 
looking at things; we Russians are not so 
ready.” 

“ Which is your misfortune, sir, a-begging 
your pardon. It don’t do to be a Rooshian, 
not in these days — leastwise not when you can 
sail under a skipper who reads the noose- 
papers.” 

He touched the wheel again, and the little 
yacht rose on the crest of a great wave before 
plunging into the shining darkness of the 
hollow. The arc ceased to glow while the 
great ship went about; the curtain of the 


198 


KRONSTADT. 


cloud was unlifted, save at one spot low upon 
the horizon where a little gate of light, like a 
wicket-gate to the heaven beyond the enve- 
lope, gave promise of a clear sky before the 
morning. For ten minutes the yacht raced 
in darkness toward the distant seas of refuge. 
Then the mighty beams shone out again, and 
their glory, surpassing the glory of day, fell 
once more upon the waters. Rippling as 
with a ripple of molten gold, the wave of 
radiance flowed on. It made jewels of the 
wind-tossed spindrift; it focussed upon the 
black sails of a fishing-boat and showed her 
labouring and sagging in the trough of the 
seas; it struck upon the dark hull of a distant 
steamer, and she stood out in it so that the 
very men upon her decks were to be counted; 
and it rested at last upon the Esmeralda, gath- 
ering her into its aureola, feeling her, as with 
fingers of light which touched prey and would 
torture it. 

No man spoke in that supreme moment. 
The hand of old John was still upon the 
spokes of the wheel; Paul leaned spell-bound 
against the shrouds and watched the quiver- 


AT THE ZENITH OF THE NIGHT. igg 

ing beams; Reuben showed his head above 
the engine-room hatchway, and the grin still 
hovered upon his face. Minutes passed and 
the enchantment was not broken. Full upon 
them the light rested, discovering every 
shroud and rope. And the men had no an- 
swer to it — no answer save the answer of the 
Esmeralda, which rushed onward toward her 
goal as though the race were a joy to her — 
a race from which she would yet reap victory. 

Reuben was the first to find his tongue. 

“ She’s the Peter Veliky, of Revel,” he 
said quietly; “ I could pick her out of a thou- 
sand. She carries four twelve-inch, and her 
speed’s fourteen — in the books.” 

“To hell with the books!” cried John 
Hook. “ The question is, what’s her speed 
here, and when is she going to show it? ” 

Reuben’s grin was yet broader. 

“ She is going to show it now, John; if 
you want to dance, there’s the music.” 

A gun boomed out above the moaning of 
the wind, and its smoke hung for an instant, 
like an envelope of vapour above the decks 
of the Peter Veliky. Then a woman’s voice 


200 


KRONSTADT. 


was heard, and Paul turned quickly to find 
Marian standing at his side. 

“I could not stay below,” she said; “it 
suffocates me — and I saw the light, Paul.” 

She slipped her hand into his and stood 
with him. She feared no longer for herself, 
but for the man who had risked life and hon- 
our that she might be free. 

“You will never make a sailor, Marian,” 
Paul answered; “you do not know how to 
obey.” 

“ I have come here to learn, dearest; I 
could not stay down there with yesterday for 
my friend.” 

Paul pointed to the distant ship whose 
blinding lantern moved slowly across the 
spuming sea. 

“ There is our to-morrow,” he said grimly. 
“ I did not wish you to know that. I thought 
that you would sleep and wake where no 
one could harm you; but now — we shall 
dance, as Reuben says.” 

She laughed to conceal her excitement. 

“ Who can harm me here when you are 
with me? ” she asked — and then, less heroic- 


AT THE ZENITH OF THE NIGHT. 


201 


ally, “ Did you not say that the Esmeralda 
was the fastest yacht in the Baltic? ” 

Paul took her face between his rough 
hands and kissed it. 

“ Little woman,” he said, if I had your 
heart! You give me courage always. In- 
deed, good luck goes with you, Marian; we 
are leaving them already.” 

The ships were abreast now, a mile of 
sparkling sea racing between them. But the 
Peter Veliky was no match for the yacht 
which Yarrow had built. The Esmeralda 
forged ahead from the first. She held her 
course unflinchingly even when the gun-shot 
flamed again across the water and a shell fell 
hissing into the waves behind her. She 
steamed on in the envelope of night, seeking 
to shake the light from her as quarry might 
shake a dog. 

“ To hell with the books! ” cried old John 
Hook in the fervour of the moment. There 
ain’t a ship in Roosher which is going to 
catch her this night, a-begging your pardon 
for the expression, miss.” 

Oh, it is true, it is true! ” cried Marian, 


202 


KRONSTADT. 


clasping her hands joyfully. “ To-morrow 
we shall be at Stockholm. What a thing to 
tell little Dick! ” 

Her eyes blazed; the magic of combat, 
that inexplicable fever, which gives scorn of 
death, had touched them. She stood en- 
tranced, a little slim figure, upon which the 
white beams fell picturesquely. When the 
man looked upon her he forgot all else but the 
morrow which should put her in his arms and 
dower him with her love while life was. 

We will tell the story together, little 
girl,” he said; ‘‘but there is something else 
to say before then, and the music has not fin- 
ished.” 

A second shell hissed above the sea and 
was swallowed up in a fountain of foam which 
rose up so close to the Esmeralda that the 
faces of her crew were wetted as by driven 
rain. It drew a curse from old John, but the 
girl laughed fearlessly. She could not realise 
the meaning of the tragedy which was being 
played. To her it was no more than some 
great set scene in a theatre where wondrous 
lights coloured the enchanted waters, and de- 


AT THE ZENITH OF THE NIGHT. 203 

mons danced impotently before the gates of 
the house impregnable. She did not believe 
that anything on earth could harm a ship 
manned by English sailors and built in Lon- 
don city. And she had an abounding con- 
fidence in her lover. He would save her — 
that had been her thought from the begin- 
ning of the terrible days. 

“ Paul,” she asked, turning to him with a 
gesture of love, “ when shall we be in Lon- 
don? ” 

‘‘ In four days’ time, little one.” 

And then ” 

‘‘ And then — it will be your turn to com- 
mand. I have no plans; I have not thought 
of it.” 

‘‘ There is no need to think, dearest. I 
shall make England a home to you indeed. 
We will live for that. We will talk of to-night 
often. You shall tell Dick how they fired 
at us. He will not believe, but it will be 
good to remember. You do not regret, 
Paul?” 

Regret — with you at my side, and the 
day to dawn, and the little yacht to carry me 


204 


KRONSTADT. 


— how should I regret? It is life to look into 
your eyes, Marian! ” 

She answered with a half caress, and he 
led her to the poop, where together they 
watched the wake of water behind them aglow 
with phosphorescent brilliance and the jew- 
elled spray of the white-capped waves. For 
a moment the danger seemed to be passing. 
The ships were no longer abreast; the great 
aureola scarce touched them; silence fell upon 
the sea, and the guns of the Peter Veliky 
ceased to speak. Anon the yacht plunged 
into the welcome shadow, and all the pent-up 
gladness of those who had waged the fight 
so dauntlessly broke out and was not to be 
restrained. A great cheer — an English cheer 
— went ringing across the sea. It was the 
answer of the four to the four hundred aboard 
the Peter Veliky. 

“ Outsteamed, by God!’' cried old John 
Hook. “ I said there warn’t no Rooshian as 
could touch her.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE TERRIBLE NIGHT. 

The echo of the cheer which rose up from 
the decks of the Esmeralda yet lingered upon 
the sea when the Russian answer to it was 
forthcoming. Even as the crew of the little 
yacht said that the danger was done with, 
and that an open sea now lay before them, a 
voice out of the darkness gave them the lie. 
So swift was it to come, so surprising, that 
the men stood mute and wondering and help- 
less. It was as though the avenger had risen 
from the depths before them — a phantom 
ship conjured up by the powers of ill to 
reckon with them. They thought themselves 
without consort in the heart of the Gulf, and 
while the thought was still with them the 
strange ship appeared. Her light shone full 

upon them from a point not two hundred 

205 


206 


KRONSTADT. 


yards distant. They could count the men 
upon her decks; could see the figure of her 
commander outstanding on the bridge; could 
follow the delicate contour of the great hull 
which now towered above them. 

The strange ship lay motionless, for she 
had been awaiting the signal of the Peter 
Veliky, and so stood toward the centre of the 
Gulf that she might command the channel. 
It is possible that the Esmeralda would have 
slipped by her in the dark but for the cheer 
of victory raised so foolishly. That triumph- 
ant cry was as the gun of a sentinel to those 
on board the Russian ship. Her lantern 
blazed out; voices of warning were raised on 
her decks; men roared to one another that 
the quarry had run into the snare, that the 
hunt was done. The beams of the great light 
fell upon the yacht and upon her crew, and the 
cheer froze on the lips of those who had raised 
it. Her men were powerless to think or act. 
The ultimate terror of defeat Avas upon them. 

A man wearing the uniform of a naval 
lieutenant stood in the bows of the cruiser 
and was the first to hail the Esmeralda. His 


THE TERRIBLE NIGHT. 


207 


voice was like the roar of a bull; the wind 
carried his words so that none of them were 
lost. Already Reuben had shut off steam 
mechanically, so that the two ships lay rolling 
to the swell like swimmers who seek breath 
after the travail of a race. But no one gave 
answer to the hail of the lieutenant. Stupor 
possessed the crew of the yacht. The blow 
had been so swift to come; the shadow of the 
prison lay already upon the men. 

“ What ship? ” roared the lieutenant, put- 
ting the question for the third time. 

‘‘ She’s the Kremi, of Helsingfors,” said 
Reuben, who was again the first to reckon up 
the danger. 

“ An old ship,” said John Hook in a 
’giant’s whisper. “ She might catch a hearse 
— leastwise I’d venture on it.” 

Nine knots in the books, John.” 

“To hell with the books! She carries her 
guns forward.” 

“ Then they cannot fire at us as we pass 
them,” exclaimed the girl excitedly. 

Old John added to the wealth of the sea 
by a mouthful of tobacco juice. 


208 


KRONSTADT. 


You’ve hit it on the head, miss! ” cried 
he. If we drift past ’em they want five 
minutes to get her about, and where shall we 
be in five minutes, mates? ” 

Reuben ceased to grin. Paul could not 
take his eyes off the cruiser. They had 
drifted so close to her that they could see the 
faces of those who trod the great decks above 
them. There was not a man on board the 
Esmeralda whose heart did not beat high, not 
one who did not tell himself that this was the 
hour of reckoning. 

C’est fini! ” Paul exclaimed, drawing the 
girl into his embrace. “ This is our to-mor- 
row, little Marian. But I have done my best, 
God knows.” 

She kissed his lips and that was her an-' 
swer. 

Alany men had come together to the port- 
bow of the Kremi, and they stood gaping at 
the stranger and at her crew. The lieutenant 
who had first cried out, asking ‘‘ What ship?” 
gave the order that a gangway should be low- 
ered; he did not doubt that it was the inten- 
tion of the pursued to surrender without fur- 




The crew flocked to the gangway 


THE TERRIBLE NIGHT. 


209 

ther effort. But those on board the Esmeral- 
da were of one mind and purpose again. The 
grin broadened upon the face of Reuben; 
old John lighted his pipe with the delibera- 
tion of a man at his own fireside. Silently 
he waited while the crew of the Kremi flocked 
to the gangway, encouraged by the shrill, fife- 
like voice of a commander who plumed him- 
self already upon his victory. Child’s work, 
the Russian thought, to grapple with the im- 
pudent and perky cockle-shell which had de- 
fied so vaingloriously the might of his coun- 
try. He gave the order triumphantly. He 
came to the very edge of the bridge to watch 
the irons slipped upon the hands of Zassulic 
the spy and of the woman who had tempted 
him. When the Esmeralda did not stop at 
the gangway, but drifted on, he thought for 
the moment that it was clumsy seamanship; 
but when, with dramatic suddenness, she be- 
gan to go full steam ahead, his anger was not 
to be controlled. 

Stand by to clear the guns! he roared. 
“ Are you going to lose her? Great God, 
she will cheat us yet! ” 


210 


KRONSTADT. 


He foamed and raged like a madman, for 
the yacht shot into the darkness as a shell 
from a great gun. The terrible moment of 
waiting was past. Inch by inch the little ship 
had drifted, carrying men whose hearts quiv- 
ered with excitement but whose spirit was 
unbroken. The terror of waiting was upon 
them no more. They had been within a 
boat’s length of the ladder when John cried 
Let her go! ” Then all the courage of their 
despair fired them. As a horse champing at 
his bit, so was the Esmeralda sagging there 
in the trough of the sea. The rush of steam 
into her cylinders was the touch of the spur 
she asked. She bounded forward into the 
heart of the breakers, and a cloud of spray 
hid her from the enemy’s sight. 

“ Below, below for your lives! ” roared 
old John; '‘they’re manning the machine- 
guns! ” 

“ We cannot leave you here! ” cried Paul, 
ashamed for the moment that it was not a 
fellow-countrymen who spoke. 

“Then you stand to your death!” cried 
John Hook. “ There ain’t a gun in Roosher 


THE TERRIBLE NIGHT. 


21 1 


which I care a damn for! — the Lord be 
my witness. Down there, sir, for your 
life!” 

The rattle of musketry and a splutter of 
bullets on the near sea cut short his honest 
bravado. Paul, needing no other argument, 
dragged Marian into the shelter of the scant- 
ling. The yacht, yawing in her course that 
she might avoid the hail of bullets, appeared 
to rush into the very bowels of the seas. On- 
ward she flew, the foam frothing at her bows, 
the spray reeking upon her funnel, a great 
wake of quivering water behind her. Bullets 
struck her decks and sent chips of wood fly- 
ing as though an adze cleaved them; the 
search-light followed her path as the light 
upon a stage follows the step of the dancer. 
Every minute was an eternity of suspense. 
The hearts of the men seemed to stand still. 
When at last the guns ceased there were tears 
upon the faces of the crew, but they were tears 
of joy. 

‘‘Down under again, by the Lord!” 
roared old John, who rolled with excitement. 
“ Down under again, and the young lady 


212 


KRONSTADT. 


thought of it. Glory be to God who made 
me an Englishman this night! ” 

He shook his fist defiantly at the distant 
light, for he knew that the hour of deliverance 
was at hand. The lumbering Kremi, which 
ventured rarely from her moorings in Hel- 
singfors, was marked in the books as a ship 
which could steam at nine knots, but that was 
a fiction beloved of officials. Put to it now 
in the heavy swell of a fresh night, she 
strained and groaned like a derelict of the 
deep; she lurched over the seas, she smoth- 
ered herself in them. The yacht ran from 
her as a hare from a bull. She fired her great 
gun again and again, but the shells found no 
other billet than the thundering breakers. 
When thirty minutes had passed she aban- 
doned the pursuit and headed once more for 
the harbour she quitted so rarely. But first 
she shot a rocket high into the darkness and 
was answered by other rockets, blue and flam- 
ing on the far horizon. And at this sight 
old John ceased to laugh, and foreboding fell 
again upon the crew of the Esmeralda. 

“ You saw that, Reuben? ” cried John 


THE TERRIBLE NIGHT. 


213 


Hook, pointing upward with his bony 
finger. 

“ I saw it, John.” 

“ Then there ain’t no need for me to 
speak.” 

‘‘ Speak or silent, it don’t make no differ- 
ence.” 

“ If I’ve eyes in my head, that’s the Baltic 
Fleet coming up the Gulf.” 

“ It is so, John.” 

“ The Baltic Fleet! ” exclaimed Paul. 
“ Then God help us! We shall never run by 
there.” 

“ You speak gospel truth, sir.” 

The master of the Esmeralda paced the 
deck again in all the agony of uncertainty 
prolonged. He had persuaded Marian to lie 
down in her cabin as soon as the Kremi 
ceased to fire; there she slept and dreamed of 
England. But for him there was no sleep. 
These recurring difficulties were to him as a 
sign from God rebuking his work. It had 
seemed so simple when he planned it at Kron- 
stadt — the quick rush in the darkness, the 
friendship of surprise, the possibility of escape 


214 


KRONSTADT. 


before the news was known. But now the 
truth would not be hidden. The flaming 
rockets spoke of a girdle put about him by 
the avenger. He realised what a task was 
that which a man set himself when he sought 
to pit his cunning against the might of Rus- 
sia. His enemies would crush him as they 
would crush a worm. They would drag him 
from the woman whose lips he had kissed, 
whose love was all that remained to him in 
life. 

‘‘ You think there is no hope for us, Reu- 
ben? ” he asked, suddenly stopping in his walk 
and facing the silent group. 

“No hope out yonder, sir — leastways not 
to-night.” 

“ You have no plan in your mind? ” 

“ None — unless you should run north, sir. 
There are always the islands.” 

“ I had not thought of them,” said Paul. 

“ I thought of them from the first,” con- 
tinued Reuben. “ There are a hundred creeks 
which might hide us until the hunt is over. 
And we’ve the land behind us, sir, if it should 
come to the worst.” 


THE TERRIBLE NIGHT. 


215 


“ Then to the islands let it be, and God 
help us if they know that we are still in the 
Gulf.” 

‘‘Ay, ay to that,” said old John; and so 
the little ship went about, and heading 
straight for the coast of Finland, she began to 
race anew. But the hearts of the men were 
heavy. It was as though they turned her to- 
ward the gates of that prison which their 
minds had built for them during the hours of 
the terrible night. 


CHAPTER XV. 

% 


UPON THE NAMELESS ISLAND. 

It was the afternoon of the day, and the 
Esmeralda lay at anchor under the lee of one 
of the rocky islets which abound upon the 
southern shores of Finland. They had 
warped her to the sheer rock so that she lay 
snug and hidden and sheltered from the wind- 
driven tide which raced between the island 
and its neighbour. A loom of haze above 
her funnel alone spoke of life within her. Her 
crew had gone ashore to stretch their legs, 
and were to be discovered upon the beach in 
all those attitudes of repose which seamen 
court. The sun fell upon the barren rock 
and upon their faces, but did not wake them. 
They had kept the long vigil, and this was 
their hour of rest. 

The day had been one of tempest since 
216 


UPON THE NAMELESS ISLAND. 


217 


the dawn; and though it was now late in 
the afternoon and the rain had ceased to fall, 
there was a thunder of surf upon the outer 
islands of the archipelago and the open water 
frothed white with foam. But the creek into 
which they had moored the Esmeralda was 
sheltered both from the wind and seas. Sheer 
walls of granite towered above the decks of 
the yacht; a girdle of tiny islets, stretching 
far out to the Gulf or back to the distant 
shore of Finland, was her defence against the 
breakers. She rode proudly at her moorings 
as though conscious of the victory which the 
night had given her. 

This haven had been made at the dawn of 
the day by men who knew every channel and 
landmark in the Gulf. They had welcomed 
it, for therein they could think of food and 
sleep, and forget that the Russian was at their 
heels. Though the truce might prove but a 
truce of hours, it was a gift of God to those 
whose eyes ached with watching, whose limbs 
were cold with wet, whose tongues were 
parched with thirst. The gale which sprang 
up with the coming of the light was a be- 


2I8 


KRONSTADT. 


friending gale to them. They said that no 
ship of war would venture near them while 
the surf thundered, and the mist of spray 
made clouds above the land, and the west 
wind screamed in the Gulf. And so they 
slept, and the sunshine of the later day was 
a balm of light to their eyes, and welcome 
warmth suffused bodies that had been stiff 
and cramped with the bitter cold of the Baltic 
night. 

Though Paul had gone ashore with his 
crew, it was not to sleep. The few hours of 
rest he had snatched in the earlier hours of 
the day sufficed for him. He, perhaps, of 
all the little company, understood most truly 
the malevolence of Fate in casting him back 
to the shelter of the island at an hour when he 
should have been in the great sea-road of the 
Baltic. The Land of the West, wherein lib- 
erty lay, seemed to have become a land be- 
yond the horizon of his dreams. He looked 
out from the island upon the whitened billows 
and remembered that Russian ships, sent to 
the pursuit of him, were watching and waiting 
in the channel of the Gulf. The distant shore. 


UPON THE NAMELESS ISLAND. 


219 


high and rocky and barren, spoke of coast 
patrols and Fins who soon must learn that a 
strange yacht lay in the harbour of the islands; 
of peasants who would run to carry the news 
to Helsingfors that a few kopecks might be 
thrown to them. Scheme as he would, he 
could contrive no plan whereby the peril 
wrought of the gale might be turned. He 
must wait for a smoother sea and a fairer 
wind. And waiting was an agony of doubt 
scarce to be supported. 

All this was in his mind when Marian 
awoke at midday and was rowed by old John 
Hook to the little patch of beach which per- 
mitted them to land upon the nameless island. 
He met her at the watdr side and lifted her 
from the boat; but he would tell her nothing 
of his thoughts, for he saw that colour had 
come again to her face and that the great 
rings beneath her eyes had been washed out 
by the waters of sleep. She was, indeed, al- 
most the light-hearted pretty creature who 
had Avon his love at the Governor’s house; 
and when he looked into her brightening eyes 
and heard her girlish laughter, love came 


220 


KRONSTADT. 


surging up to compel forgetfulness of all 
else. 

‘‘ I have been waiting for you/’ he said 
tenderly. The hours were long.” 

“ They will race now,” she answered, as 
she locked her hand in his. ‘‘ We shall see 
each other growing old, Paul. Oh, is it not 
good to breathe again? I could run, run, 
run to the world’s end.” 

She dragged him on, hastening with joy 
of her freedom, telling him a hundred things 
at once, asking unfinished questions and 
waiting for no answer. When they had 
come to the high place of the rock she 
curled herself up on the ground and there 
she feasted her eyes on the panorama of 
whitened sea and whirling gull and deso- 
late island. The man lay beside her, con- 
tent that he had won her this hour of happi- 
ness. 

“ I cannot believe it,” she said, while the 
spindrift freshened her face and the wind 
swept the curls from her little ears, ‘‘ I cannot 
believe that we are here. How should a day 
make such a difference? How should our 


UPON THE NAMELESS ISLAND. 


221 


lives run so evenly through long years 
and then turn so swiftly, carrying us away 
from everything we have ever known to 
things we never dreamed of ? A month 
ago I was a governess in the house of 
Kronstadt. I taught the twins to grow 
up in the way they did not want to go. 
But to-day, where am I? what am I? Why 
are these things hidden from us? And if 
it is so strange to-day, what will it be next 
year and the year after? Oh, if one could 
look even for a moment into the glass of 
life!’’ 

“ But you cannot,” said Paul stolidly. 
“ There is no glass except the glass of your 
mind and conscience. We cannot look; we 
can only act, Marian. And that is what we 
have been doing, you and I, though God 
knows what kind of a story we have written 
or where it will end. At this moment we are 
on an island near Hango, and we wait there 
until the wind and the sea go down. When 
that happens we shall go aboard the Esmer- 
alda again, and to-morrow we shall come to 
Stockholm.” 


222 


KRONSTADT. 


She clapped her hands, and regarding her 
environment wistfully, she cried — 

‘‘ It is a world of islands, a world without 
life. There can be no spot on all the earth 
as lonely as this. And yet it is a city to me 
now. I could people it with the birds; the 
rocks should be the churches and buildings 
for me. Paradise lies on the broad road 
when one has been a month and has not seen 
the sun.” 

He stroked her face, encouraging her to 
forget that her freedom might depend upon 
the whim of the wind. 

“ You are glad to be free, Marian, as glad 
as I am! Some day, perhaps, we will remem- 
ber this day and speak of it as the morning 
of our love. I do not think that they will 
follow us; there are few that can sail these 
seas. Even the fishermen come here reluc- 
tantly. It is a grave for sailors, as many a 
good fellow knows.” 

“ And yet you come here? ” 

‘‘ It was the one thing left to do. W e 
could not pass the ships they had sent out 
yonder; we could not go back; this was our 


UPON THE NAMELESS ISLAND. 


223 

only haven, unless we returned to the prison 
as they wished.” 

She shuddered and drew close to him. 

“ We shall never go back, dearest; you 
think that? ” 

He began to pick at the rocky stones and 
to throw them into the froth of the breaking 
waves. 

“ I do not know,” he said after a long 
pause. “ Who can say what the future will 
bring? But I am a Russian no more. I 
have no country now. It does not concern 
me.” 

The infinite pathos of his words was not 
to be concealed from her. Never since he 
had carried her from the cell at Alexander 
had she understood so well the price he had 
paid. 

“ Oh, Paul, Paul! ” she exclaimed bitterly, 
what have I done? what crime have I com- 
mitted that I should bring this upon you? 
Let me go back to Kronstadt. I am not 
worth your sacrifice. I can never repay. 
There is time yet.” 

The man laughed at her distress, and, 


224 


KRONSTADT. 


blaming himself because he had spoken, 
he answered by taking her face into his 
hands and looking into her tear-stained 
eyes. 

“ The crime you have committed,” he 
said, ‘‘ is to be the sweetest woman on earth! 
The wrong which you have done is to make 
me love you so that without you there is no 
world for me! Why talk of repaying? Is 
there to be a reckoning between those who 
love? Have they not all things in common? 
Who hurts you hurts me. When you are 
content I am content. I lose a country to 
gain the whole world. If I am no longer a 
Russian, shall I not be the husband of Mar- 
ian? Let us not talk of these things; it is in- 
gratitude while we have the bread of life so 
abundantly. When that bread fails we will 
complain. To-morrow if the wind goes 
down, we shall be at Stockholm. I shall 
leave the yacht there and take an English 
steamer for London. It will then be your 
turn to forget that you are an Englishwoman ; 
you will be the wife of Zassulic; you will be 
the friend of Russia. All that you have learnt 


UPON THE NAMELESS ISLAND. 


225 


at Kronstadt will be forgotten; the friends 
who tempted you will be strangers to you 
henceforth. We will begin life again, pil- 
grims in a strange country. But we shall 
walk the way of life together, and so the jour- 
ney will be easy.” 

The shadow of regret passed from his face 
white he went on to speak of all he would do 
in London; how that he hoped much from 
his kinsman and from his own training as an 
engineer. Marian, in her turn, listened with 
smiling face, though she was telling herself 
all the time that she must prevent the sacri- 
fice, must compel him to return to his work 
and his country; if possible, to return, not as 
one disgraced, but a man who had wrestled 
with a great temptation and had vanquished 
it. As for herself, she did not doubt that her 
wits would find a way whereby she m^ight 
reach her own country. The present danger 
she was in, the peril of almost immediate dis- 
covery by the Russian ships, was not real to 
her. She could run again and see the sky 
and breathe the fresh air. She felt herself 
adrift upon the ocean of circumstance, and 


226 


KRONSTADT. 


the voyage was not without its measure of 
excitement. 

You must go back, Paul,” she said very 
firmly when he had done speaking; “ we must 
find a way and an excuse.” 

“ A way. Petite, when you have been seen 
upon my ship, and the Sergeant has told them 
that I took you from the fort? Oh, yes, ‘that 
would be easy enough; they are such simple- 
tons at Kronstadt; they will believe me when 
I say, ‘The prisoner escaped: it was an 
accident ’ ; they will reward me — with a file 
of soldiers and lead for medicine. The day 
when I can return to Russia will be the day 
when stars fall at our feet and there is no 
longer any sun in the sky. It is foolish to 
talk of it. Henceforth you shall make a 
country for me; it shall be a country of the 
heart; the house will be the house of our 
affections. We shall laugh then to remem- 
ber of what little worth are all those material 
things which at one time seemed so much to 
us; we shall laugh at to-day, and tell how we 
cheated old Bonzo after all.” 

It was a brave effort to conceal from her 


UPON THE NAMELESS ISLAND. 


227 


the apprehension he felt; but the woman’s 
instinct rightly interpreted the words. When 
next he looked into her face she was gazing 
over the storm-tossed waste to the distant 
field of the open sea, where the west wind 
still blew with hurricane force and banks of 
gathering cloud were the gloomy heralds of 
the night to come. 

“ The wind befriends us,” she said 
thoughtfully, ‘‘ but the wind will die away 
presently, and then ” 

“ And then the darkness will take its 
place, little woman. Even if they think we 
are here among the islands, they must spend 
days before they discover upon which island 
we are. While they are looking for us we 
shall be snug in the harbour at Stockholm. 
We must steal from harbour to harbour until 
we see that no ships follow, and then the 
little yacht will do the rest. There is no ship 
in Russia that can outsteam her with a clear 
sea before us. We shall wait for the clear 
sea and all will be well.” 

They had left the grassy knoll at this time 
and had come up to the headland, wherefrom 


228 


KRONSTADT. 


they could overlook the strange haven into 
which destiny had cast them. Marian be- 
held again the world of islands, vast, inter- 
minable, stretching as far as the eye could see 
away toward the Baltic or back to the Russia 
they had left. The gloom of water and sky, 
the cold gray light, the haunting solitude, the 
wash of the waves, the shrill note of the gull, 
oppressed her anew with a vast sense of her 
own loneliness. She thought that she was an 
outcast from the world. She pictured herself 
flying from man to the desolate places of the 
earth. A hundred years of time seemed to lie 
between her and the life she had lived. She 
reproached herself bitterly that she had re- 
warded so great a love with so terrible a gift 
— the gift of men’s slander and the insult of 
evil tongues, the brand of dishonour and the 
exile’s lot. 

And this thought grew upon her, that she 
must save Paul from himself and go alone 
upon the way to which her folly had carried 
her. 



Marian beheld a^ain the world of islands. 





CHAPTER XVL 


ALONE. 

The westerly gale held throughout the 
day, and was still at its height when the men 
of the Esmeralda turned into their bunks. 
They had watched unceasingly during the 
afternoon for any sign of ships upon the hori- 
zon or for token of life upon the neighbour- 
ing shore of Einland. But the sea continued 
to run mountains high in the broad of the 
Gulf, and there was a haze of mist and spray 
over the land which served them well in those 
anxious moments of waiting. They argued 
that the Baltic Fleet would not attempt to 
weather such a gale, but would be already 
snug and sheltered at Helsingfors or at Revel. 
As for the fishermen of the neighbouring 
isles, the circumstance of the day accounted 
for them and for their ships. No little craft 

could live in such a gale; no peasant would 

229 


230 


KRONSTADT. 


patrol the shores while the west wind swept 
up the Gulf and the breakers thundered upon 
the outer reef. To-morrow the wind would 
fall away and the calm would come. To- 
morrow they would begin to live again. 

The night fell dark and misty and threat- 
ening, so that there was no need of any watch 
upon the decks of the little ship. Guarded 
by the breakers without and the towering 
crags for sentinels within, the haven befriend- 
ed her beyond hope. No lights shone from 
the ports of the Esmeralda upon the swirling 
waters of the channel. Her men went to and 
fro silently as though afraid to speak. They 
welcomed the hours of truce, for therein they 
could sleep and rest. Marian alone kept a 
vigil of the night. For her sleep had become 
a fitful friend. There were terrors of her 
dreams which no waking argument could 
shake off. She slept to imagine herself once 
more in the cell at Alexander; she awoke to 
ask herself if she would ever come to Eng- 
land again. She remembered that she was 
an outcast and had struck at the honour of 
the man she loved in her fall. 


ALONE. 


231 


Old John Hook and Reuben, the engi- 
neer, went ashore several times during the 
night to see if there was any abatement of 
wind or sea; but when at four o’clock they 
found the gale still blowing, it was evident to 
them that the necessity for watchfulness ex- 
isted no longer — at least until the day 
dawned. They were sound asleep in their 
bunks when Marian dressed herself in the 
darkness at four o’clock and left the cabin 
wherein sleep had brought her so many terri- 
ble dreams. She had no set purpose in quit- 
ting her bed other than the desire to breathe 
the fresh air of morning. The gray beams of 
light shining behind banks of sullen cloud 
were welcome to her after the darkness and 
confinement of her little cabin. Silently she 
trod the steps of the companion, and ran to 
the bow of the yacht to stand there and hear 
the water lapping monotonously upon the 
face of the cliff. The nameless islands around 
began slowly to shape themselves in a vista of 
spray and haze. Strange birds went scream- 
ing from crag to crag; but of human life 
there was no sight or sound. 


232 


KRONSTADT. 


It had been an impulse which brought 
her to the deck, but this was to prove a morn- 
ing of impulses. Ever present through the 
weary night of waiting had been the desire to 
save the man she loved from the conse- 
quences of her folly. Just as at Kronstadt, 
in the hour of her necessity, a woman’s weak- 
ness had cast her upon his pity and devotion, 
so now was she convinced that she must rely 
upon that pity and devotion no longer. She 
told herself, but with the vaguest notions of 
reasoning, that if Paul were alone, it would 
be easy for him to return to his own coun- 
try with some story that would convince 
Bonzo and old Stefanovitch of his fidelity. 
And she must not deny him that opportunity. 
He had given all; her gift should not be less. 

‘‘ I will save him from himself,” she said 
again and again. “ They shall not find me 
upon his yacht. He will go back to Russia 
and forget. I have been alone so many 
years; it is nothing that I am alone until 
the end.” 

She repeated the words while she stood at 
the bow of the Esmeralda and watched the 


ALONE. 


233 


sea racing in the narrow of the channel. To 
save the man who had lost all for her, to give 
him back country, friends, honour — she cared 
not at what cost — that must be her purpose. 
All the happiness of his love which had come 
into her life must wither and die. If God 
willed, she would still have the love of the 
child. Her unbroken courage suggested that 
she would find the way to England when once 
she was alone. Half-formed schemes of a 
place of hiding in the hut of a peasant, of 
flight in a fisherman’s ship, helped her resolu- 
tions. She remembered that she had rowed 
a boat often upon the river Dart, and that 
weeks of imprisonment had still left much 
of her girlish strength. And so the great 
idea took finite shape and was resolved upon. 

Quickly, silently, with deft hands, she 

drew the yacht’s boat, then lying at the stern 

of the ship, to the gangway, which had been 

left down during the night. A feverish haste 

characterised all her movements. She was 

afraid that they would come and rob her of 

success; she feared that someone would 

awake to prevent her emprise. Her great 
16 


234 


KRONSTADT. 


love for Paul surged up in her heart, yet did 
but quicken her steps. A rebellious anger 
urged her on to a war against circumstance: 
a war she must wage alone and without 
friends. 

Stealthily the little gray-clad figure moved 
in the morning light. Hither and thither, 
pitiful in the agony of a farewell she could not 
speak, tears falling upon her cold hands, an- 
ger (she knew not why) in her heart, the girl 
bent down to kiss the deck beneath which her 
lover was sleeping. 

God bless you, Paul, my love! God 
bless you for your love of me! ” 

And so the voyage began, and the pilgrim 
was alone again, and the curtain of the mist 
shut the yacht from her sight. 

• ••••• 

They awoke the master of the Esmeralda 
and told him of her flight. He did not an- 
swer them, but stood long peering into the 
mists which enveloped the island seas. When 
Reuben spoke to him at last he turned quick- 
ly and fell senseless upon the deck of the si- 
lent ship. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


FORSAKEN OF ALL. 

There were oars in the yacht’s boat, but 
the current ran so swiftly that Marian was 
unable to fix them in the rowlocks before the 
tide caught the little ship in its embrace and 
swept it out toward the open sea. So rapid 
was the race that the panorama of crag and 
headland about her seemed to be hidden in a 
moment from her sight. Turn where she 
would she espied an horizon of fog and va- 
pour. The searching white mists of morning 
lay upon the sea in billows of chilling cloud. 
No breath of wind stirred to sweep the 
Gulf and roll up this veil which hid the world 
from her sight. Calm — the calm that those 
upon the Esmeralda had wished for — had 
come at last. But the very silence of it was 

a terror to the helpless girl cast adrift at the 

235 


236 


KRONSTADT. 


whim of impulse, the martyr to a woman’s 
logic and a woman’s love. 

Swiftly the current ran, but silently, so 
that no sound broke the stillness save the lap 
of the water upon the prow. Minutes were 
numbered, but were hours for her. She 
heard bells ringing strangely through the cur- 
tain of the fog, and wondered if they were the 
bells of a town. Anon the sound of waves 
breaking upon some strand spoke either of 
the coast of Finland or of the shore of a 
neighbouring island; but she could make out 
no land looming through the haze, and 
though she tried to row the boat in the direc- 
tion of the bells, the current mastered her, 
and she was borne on, she knew not whither. 
It seemed to her that Fate was carrying her 
out to the death of the veiled sea. While the 
mist benumbed her hands and drenched her 
clothes, and the spray sparkled upon her face, 
an anger of impulse still drove her on, she 
cared not to what end if her lover might 
thereby be saved. He had suffered that she 
might be free; she would suffer that his coun- 
try might be given back to him. 


FORSAKEN OF ALL. 


237 


“I will save him!” was her cry, oft re- 
peated, while she used her oars desperately 
and shut her little lips as though to help the 
resolution. They will find him alone, and 
he will be able to make some excuse. He 
will say that I am dead.” 

At other times she would laugh aloud, 
asking herself what she must look like with 
her hair drenched and dank, and her face 
white and pinched, and her gown bedraggled. 
She said that old Stefanovitch would make 
love to her no more if he could see her at such 
a moment. She ceased to row a little while 
that she might recall all his leers and amorous 
antics — how long ago it was since they had 
been a part of her daily life! Or she would 
gaze wistfully at the barrier of fog, as though 
seeking beyond it a lamp of destiny which 
should show her the course. Death itself 
must be like this solitude; the stillness of the 
grave could bring no greater terror than the 
terror of one drifting in the loom of mists, 
far from friends and from men. 

“ I must not think,” she said, beginning 
to row again with new energy. “ There will 


KRONSTADT. 


238 

be sunshine presently, and then it will be dif- 
ferent. I shall put ashore on some island, 
and the fishermen will give me food and take 
me across to Sweden. Paul will go back to 
Russia. I have done right, and have only 
myself to blame.” 

She longed for sunshine as the sick long 
after the vigil of a night of waking. The 
folly of putting out to sea in a boat which car- 
ried neither food nor drink became more ap- 
parent to her every hour. There were mo- 
ments of regret, when she began to wonder 
if Paul would follow her, when she hated the 
obscurity of day, which was her shield against 
pursuit. Hunger now began to forewarn her 
of added suffering to come. The biting air 
of morning and the labour of the oar were 
foes to the little reserve of strength which had 
nerved her to flight. She said that none but 
a woman would have done so foolish a thing, 
and laughed at herself because she had done 
it. When she found herself able to row no 
more than a dozen strokes at a spell, when 
her head began to swim and all nature cried 
out for food, she laughed no more, but bit 


FORSAKEN OF ALL. 


239 


her lips again, and remembered that it was for 
her lover’s life. And so day came up at last 
out of the sea, and the curtain of the mist was 
rolled back. 

Gradually, as though a hand from the 
ether was stretched out to scatter it, the fog 
lifted. A golden sea shone beneath, rippling, 
sparkling with jewels of light. Farther back, 
and yet farther, showing new glories of the 
mirror of waters, the curtain was drawn. 
Marian beheld the red disc of the sun like a 
mighty globe hanging in the east; she saw a 
new world rise up out of the dissolving fog. 
Jagged crags of rocks stood suddenly in the 
path of the current. Shapes as of cliffs and 
domes of granite were formed against the 
white background. A new warmth suffused 
the whole air softly; the outposts of the night 
were rolled back until day triumphed and all 
the sea was glorious with its radiance. 

For some little while the girl sat en- 
tranced with the spectacle. The current 
which had borne her vessel to this new scene 
no longer raced toward the open sea. The 
tide was on the turn, and the boat rested in 


240 


KRONSTADT. 


the slack of the water. Far away, beyond 
many a reef and boulder, lay the greater 
waters of the Gulf. She spied out the shape 
of a vessel lying at anchor there, and her 
first thought was that a Russian ship had 
come to the islands in pursuit of the Es- 
meralda. She said that it would find Paul 
alone. As for herself, there was no longer 
need to fear. Islands lay all about her. 
Here and there she perceived smoke ris- 
ing from some cot or village; the friendly 
sea brought her almost to the very beach 
of an islet green and ripe with spring 
grasses. She rowed to its sandy shore, and 
dragging the boat as far as her strength 
would permit up on a ridge of shingle, she set 
out to discover upon what kind of a haven 
she had fallen. Never did woman set foot 
upon land more gladly. Wet and cold and 
miserable, knowing well that she stood alone 
in the world, conscious that the Russian 
guarded the gate by which she must pass to 
England, nevertheless the sunshine was as 
wine to her, the warmth of morning as a gift 
of God. Impulsively, with a child’s joy, she 


FORSAKEN OF ALL. 


241 


ran to the higher places of the island; she 
wrung her wet clothes and bound her un- 
kempt hair again. There would be fisher- 
men’s huts upon the other side, she said; they 
would give her food for charity’s sake; she 
would make them understand, it would be fun 
to do so. But when she stood upon the 
high place of her little kingdom she found 
that it was desolate as the other isles had 
been. No hut or cottage spoke of life awak- 
ing, or of men still at their sleep. The shrill 
note of the whirling birds, the splash of the 
sea upon the golden sands, were the voices 
of the sanctuary. Marian listened to them a 
little while as one who hears the tidings of 
surpassing ill. Then with a bitter cry of 
woe she ran down to the beach again. 

She had thought to find her boat where 
she had left it, washed by the lips of the 
waves, but the tide had ebbed back a little 
way — for there is always a suggestion of tide 
in the Gulf — and the little ship lay high and 
dry upon a bed of oozy sand. Nor could all 
her strength move it again, even so much as a 
foot, from its resting-place. And when she 


242 


KRONSTADT. 


was sure of this, when she knew that she was 
alone upon that desolate isle, her courage for- 
sook her for the first time since she had left 
Kronstadt, and she sank upon the sands 
weeping bitterly. 

“ Paul, Paul,” she cried, “ come to me — 
do not leave me here alone! ” 

So she cried for her lover. A gull scream- 
ing above her head answered with a mocking 
note. Only the life-giving sunshine befriend- 
ed one whom all the world had forsaken. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A STRANGE FIGURE ON THE SHORE. 

The fit of weeping passed when reason 
had come to her own again, and Marian sat 
a long while gazing wistfully over the rip- 
pling sheen of the sunlit sea. Once she 
thought she heard a gun fired in the distance, 
and this spoke to her of a life being lived 
around her, of other isles near by, wherein 
men’s voices were heard and the laughter of 
children. She began to argue that she had 
but to wait for the flood of the tide to put 
off her boat and come at some neighbouring 
shore which should offer more welcome har- 
bourage. Weary and faint as she was, with 
hope dimmed and courage broken, despair 
was not for such an hour. She had the idea 
to go up to the cliff and there to drink at 

the spring which she had seen jetting forth 

243 


KRONSTADT. 


244 

from the face of the rock. Thereafter she 
would sleep, and night would bring her food 
and friends. 

While she knew nothing of her situation, 
of the land upon which she was cast, or of its 
environment, she was in reality upon that 
place known to the Fins as the island of the 
Holy Well. In circuit perhaps the third part 
of a mile, this speck of land lay five miles 
from that other isle which had harboured the 
Esmeralda from the storm. But it was a 
kindlier shore, for the cliff reared its head 
only on the westward side, and elsewhere sil- 
ver sand made a bed, as of the dust of jewels, 
for the gentle seas which fell upon it. A few 
sickly trees stood sentinels about the spring, 
and heather-like bushes thrived and flourished 
in the path of the water. Marian sought the 
scanty shade of these trees so soon as it was 
plain to her that she must await the will of 
the sea. She drank long draughts of the 
fresh water and bathed her face and hands in 
the translucent pool. Now that the sun 
shone gloriously upon the island her heart 
was lighter and her hope returning. She per- 


A STRANGE FIGURE ON THE SHORE. 


245 


ceived other isles, distant more than a mile, 
and she could distinguish the cottages of the 
fishermen. Night should find her sleeping in 
one of those huts, , she argued. She would 
sleep the sounder because she was alone, be- 
cause she had found strength to give as it 
had been given unto her. 


“ I shall live my life with little Dick,” she 
said. “ There is always a living in England 
for those who will work. We will face the 
world together, the child and I, and God will 
show us the road. I must forget that it has 
ever been otherwise. Paul will marry a Rus- 
sian woman, and yesterday will be scored out 
of the book.” 

She was tearing at the grass vindictively 
when she said this, and the sheen of the pool 
glowing radiantly, she beheld her own face in 
it — a face white and drawn and pitiful, with 
curls run wild and eyes shining from black 
rings. Ill as the picture pleased her, a little 
vanity helped to recall the faces of the Rus- 
sian women she had known; and therein she 
found a great content. It was good to tell 
herself that Paul’s wife would have the face of 


246 


KRONSTADT. 


a Japanese; that her figure would be flat like 
a board; that her skin would be parched and 
brown, and that her dresses would come from 
Paris and would not fit Jier. She said that 
she hated all Russian women; but the wo- 
man who was to be his wife she hated already 
with a hatred which, when she reflected upon 
it a little while, compelled her to laugh. She 
was still laughing when she saw the appari- 
tion on the beach. 

So intent had she been upon her occupa- 
tion of gazing into the pool that for the time 
being she lost all memory of the island and of 
the silent seas about her. When she looked 
up again and came back to remembrance, 
her first thought was of the boat lying down 
there upon the silver sand below her. Quick- 
ly her eyes sought it out; but she could scarce 
trust them when she beheld a strange figure, 
come, she knew not whence, to stand by the 
seashore and watch her vain employment. 

The figure was the figure of a man garbed 
in a flowing robe of brown cloth girdled at 
the waist with a coarse knotted rope.. Huge 
in stature, the monk, for such he seemed to 


A STRANGE FIGURE ON THE SHORE. 247 

be, Stood motionless as a pillar of rock. His 
long waving hair fell upon his shoulders abun- 
dantly and was caught by the gentle breeze, 
which tossed it over his haggard face so that 
his features were hidden. The glowing eyes 
shone cadaverously with a light of fasting and 
of faith. So old were the leather sandals he 
wore that they permitted the sharp rock to 
cut his feet, the sea to wash them. Strange 
and forbidding, like some wild man of the 
woods, the apparition stood with folded arms 
to watch the girl, while she in turn, speech- 
less with fear and dread of the mystery, 
crouched upon the grass and found herself 
unable to utter a word or stir a step from the 
place. Never in all her life had she been so 
conscious of that ultimate terror of the un- 
seen, which surpasses the terror of death 
itself. Sure as she was that no human thing 
had moved upon the island when she first 
trod it, this apparition seemed to have risen 
up before her from the very heart of the rock. 
Her impulse was to cry out, to flee the place 
as an abode of dreadful images, but her limbs 
did not answer to her will. The cry she 


248 


KRONSTADT. 


would have uttered froze upon her lips; she 
shook with the beating of her heart. For 
some little while indeed the trance of fear 
passed to oblivion. She fell in a swoon, and 
when consciousness returned to her the appa- 
rition had vanished. 

Marian had never known, until she came 
to Russia, what the meaning of a nervous 
system might be. Though her nerves had 
been shattered by the terrors of Alexander 
and by days and nights of dreadful contem- 
plation, she was still able to recover quickly 
from panic and to laugh at it. When she 
found herself crouching upon the grass, and 
was conscious of a great glare of sunlight in 
her eyes, she did not, upon the instant, recall 
why she had swooned. The island about her 
was as desolate as when first she set foot upon 
it. The sea droned its lazy song as though 
welcoming the restful spring; the beach 
showed no sign of human thing. She 
watched it dreamily for a little while and then 
recalled the terror. 

It was a dream,” she said, though she 
shuddered again at the memory. “ I must 


A STRANGE FIGURE ON THE SHORE. 249 

have been asleep. How could there be any- 
one here? or if there is, why should I be 
afraid of him? What nonsense to think of 
such things! ” 

Consoling herself thus, she sprang up 
lightly and ran down to the shore. Her boat 
was just as she had left it; but when she 
turned to examine the sand thereabout she 
discovered unmistakably the imprint of a 
sandalled foot; she could trace the steps to 
the border of the grass, but thereafter they 
were lost. And at this she stood spellbound 
again, not fearing because a man was with 
her upon the island, but because he hid him- 
self thus from her, and his place of habitation 
was not to be discovered by her eyes. She 
had heard, it is true, of fanatical hermits who 
build pillars for themselves upon these lone 
rocks of Finland, but the traditions did not 
help her reasoning. She thought that she 
could never rest until she had seen and 
spoken to the unknown. The terrible hun- 
ger from which she suffered drove her rather 
to desire a meeting with him. She must 

know that he was human. Calling out with 
17 


250 


KRONSTADT. 


all her strength, she began to run across the 
island. She searched the beach and all the 
little caves and crannies cut out in the heart 
of the rock. She stood to listen for the 
sound of steps, but the dreadful silence was 
unbroken. No dwelling place nor other 
trace of man, save those footsteps upon the 
shore, was to be discovered. It was an awful 
thought for her, this thought of mystery and 
concealment; it was more dreadful to think 
that night might come and trap her still on 
the haven. 

The sun had passed the meridian by this 
time. It was nearly three in the afternoon. 
Hunger, relentless and increasing, became an 
added punishment of her pilgrimage. She 
had the strength to walk no more, yet feared 
to sleep. She knew not what might happen 
to her if she lost consciousness and the 
apparition should stand over her while she 
dreamed. Her place of refuge was a ledge 
of rock raised ten feet above the sand, and so 
narrow that anyone coming up to her must 
awake her in the act. Here she was sheltered 
from the sun; a great boulder of granite hid 


A STRANGE FIGURE ON THE SHORE. 25 1 

her from the view of anyone who might pass 
on the beach below. At the very moment 
when she said that she would not close her 
eyes, nature prevailed above her resolution 
and she fell into a sound sleep. When she 
awoke, the sun was dipping into the sea and 
the chill of a spring sunset was upon the 
island. 

The West was aflame then with moun- 
tains of crimson light merging at the crown 
of the arc into orange and purple and the 
finer shades of yellow. The monital stillness 
of the coming night lay heavy upon the wa- 
ters. There were gray shadows everywhere 
and darkness in the glens of the rock. Mar- 
ian sat up, blaming herself that she had slept 
so long. Her brain burned and her hands 
were hot and dry. She had never known 
that hunger could be such a cruel foe. It 
seemed to her then that she would have given 
half her years for a drink of milk and a cake 
of bread. All the dainties she loved were 
shaped in fancy before her eyes; she could 
have eaten the very grass. Slowly and 
painfully she rose, determined to go up again 


252 


KRONSTADT. 


and drink a little water at the spring, but no 
sooner was she upon her feet than she cried 
out with joy and clasped her hands as a child 
that hears of a holiday. 

While she slept someone had set a rough 
earthenware dish at her side. She opened 
the dish to find that it contained a loaf of 
coarse brown bread with a mess of meat and 
vegetables, and close by there was a bottle of 
red wine, rough and sour, but more sweet to 
the little wanderer than all the vintages of 
champagne. 

“ A miracle! a miracle! ” she cried gladly, 
while she took the black bread in her hands 
and drank a long draught of the wine. ‘‘ The 
ghost has been here while I slept, and I share 
his dinner. Oh, how good it is to eat and 
drink!” 

The wine warmed her as a strong cordial. 
Blood suffused her cheeks; there was a nerv- 
ous pulsation in all her limbs. She feared the 
apparition no more, for she knew that some 
wandering priest must be with her upon the 
island and that he had set the food at her 
side. All her thought then was to get her 


A STRANGE FIGURE ON THE SHORE. 253 

boat into the water and to set off for that 
unknown port which should be to her a port 
of safety. She would not delay another hour 
upon the desolate isle, for the flood was now 
surging upon the beach and the heralds of 
night were winging in the East. 

Strong in the desire to quit the lonely 
scene, she ate her food quickly and ran down 
to the beach; but there she stood once more 
irresolute, for a ship lay in the offing, and it 
was one of the most curious she had ever 


seen. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE QUEST OF THE WOMAN. 

It was midday and the Esmeralda lay at 
anchor in the shelter of some outstanding 
rocks which girdled an island distant three 
miles from that haven which had witnessed 
the flight of Marian. Two men of the four 
who had accompanied her master from Kron- 
stadt were to be seen upon her decks; but so 
well chosen was her place of hiding, and so 
wonderfully did the boulders of rock shield 
her, that her crew were indifferent alike to 
the presence of a Russian cruiser which lay 
at anchor in the distant offing, and to the eyes 
of the neighbouring flshermen whose boats 
dotted the unruffled surface of the sea. 

Of the two upon the deck, one was 
old John Hook, who leaned heavily upon the 
bulwarks and exposed his brawny arms and 


THE QUEST OF THE WOMAN. 


255 

matted hair to the welcome warmth of the 
spring sun; the other was Reuben, the en- 
gineer, who squatted wearily upon a coil of 
rope. 

“ Eight bells,” said Reuben, filling a pipe 
with a seaman’s deliberation, “ eight bells, 
John. By gosh! I’d like to know where we 
shall be at eight bells to-morrow.” 

“To hell with the bells!” replied John 
Hook, spitting vindictively into the sea. 
“ I’m derned if all you chaps don’t think 
you’re sky-pilots! I’ll want something more 
than a Death’s-head Rooshian to put a white 
choker round me, as sure as my name’s John 
Hook!” 

Reuben continued to cut his tobacco me- 
thodically. 

“ Women are rum-uns. I’m blessed if 
they’re not,” said he after a spell. “ To think 
as she should have turned it up, in the middle 
of the night too! Why, if she’d have held on 
another twelve hours, we’d have put her into 
Stockholm before morning. What was in 
her head, that’s what I want to know? ” 

“ Common-sense, that’s what was in her 


256 


KRONSTADT. 


head, mate. She’s a rare plucked ’iin if ever 
I sailed with one! Why, think of a little bit 
of goods like that, not more’n you could crush 
in yer ’and easy, a little bit of goods like that 
agen all Rooshia and agen all the world! 
Where’s she now? — ask yerself. Starvin’ 
meybe, meybe in one o’ them ground-floor 
hells they call a prison in these parts. And 
why’s she dun it? Why, so as they shan’t 
find her along wi’ him. It’s a cruel thing, 
mate, a bit of a gal all alone on a shore like 
this. I’m denied if I wouldn’t sign for a 
twelvemonth, if that would bring her back 
agen! ” 

Reuben lit his pipe and got up to watch 
the distant warship. 

‘‘Well,” said he, “ wishin’ ain’t goin’ to 
bring her back, John, and as for that I’d take 
my dinner more easy if yon lot would weigh. 
Supposin’ they’ve no news of us, what are 
they doing there? Is it to see a fisher fleet? 
A shilling sail wouldn’t swallow that.” 

“Who’s asking of you to swallow it?” 
asked the other testily. “ Of course they’ve 
got the news; but having the news and sight- 


THE QUEST OF THE WOMAN. 


257 


ing us through ten feet of rock’s a different 
story, ain’t it? Who’s to tell ’em we’re lyin’ 
here? Are we goin’ to run up a fleg? or is 
one of them swabs a-fishin’ out there goin’ to 
beat in a mile to spy us out. Denied if you 
don’t talk like a babe and sucklin’ ! ” 

Reuben smoked angrily and crossed to 
the other side of the ship. 

“ I wish the guv’nor was aboard,” said he; 
“ there ain’t no good to be done over yonder. 
I’ll swear. It’s eight hours since she went 
now. You want a good eye to spy out eight 
hours, John.” 

‘‘ That’s so, mate, always rememberin’ as 
tides don’t go on like women’s tongues, for 
ever and ever. If she ain’t gone ashore afore 
this, she’s somewhere in the flow of this chan- 
nel, and there we’ll find her. It’ll take more 
than the skipper of Petersburg to stop me 
when it’s an English lady that’s between us. 
I’m denied if I wouldn’t pull his nose for a 
shilling! ” 

He added to the volume of the sea again; 
but Reuben continued to gaze wistfully at the 
island upon which his master had landed in 


258 


KRONSTADT. 


quest of the little fugitive. Paul had known 
no resting hour since she was gone. He un- 
derstood that he had played for the great 
stake and had lost. He saw himself branded 
as a traitor by the men who had known him 
and loved him; cast out from the career of 
his ambition to these desolate islands; utterly 
alone at a moment when, with all his heart 
and soul, he yearned for the love which des- 
tiny had robbed him of. 

My little wife! ” he had cried when they 
brought him the news. ‘‘ I cannot lose you. 
God help me, I cannot live alone again! ” 
Haggard and worn and weary with grief, 
the man, who had dared all for a woman’s 
love, learned that love was to come no more 
into his life. The cup had been snatched 
from his lips at a moment when he had first 
tasted the sweetness of the draught. He be- 
gan to remember all that Marian had meant 
to him.* He recalled her tenderness, her pret- 
tiness, the delight of that hour when he had 
whispered his love in the shadow of the bas- 
tions of Kronstadt. He swore to God that 
he would never see the sun again if she were 


THE QUEST OF THE WOMAN. 


259 


not given back to him; he raged against his 
destiny; a voice whispered that the woman 
had left him to carry the plans of the great 
fortress to England, and there to sell them 
as she had first intended. To this voice he 
would not listen; and when the paralysis of 
despair had passed, a new activity, the ac- 
tivity of the quest, possessed him as a fever. 
“He would find her,” he said, “ though he 
lived and died on that desolate shore! ” 

One boat remained to the Esmeralda, the 
dinghy which she carried amidships. He or- 
dered them to lower it that no haven or creek 
or channel might remain unsearched. Reck- 
less, defiant, caring nothing for prudence or 
pursuit, his voice was raised pitifully in many 
a rocky harbour and upon many a shore. 
The moan of the wind alone answered him. 
The desolate sea was unpitying. 

At midday the yacht made an island, 
prominent amongst the others by reason of 
a curious girdle of outstanding rocks which 
defended it. It was here that the men first 
observed the Russian cruiser lying far out at 
sea. They warped their ship to one of the 


26 o 


KRONSTADT. 


boulders of the rock, while their master, head- 
strong and not to be restrained, went ashore 
to see if the heights of the new land would 
help him to discover the missing boat and 
the little wanderer, whose purpose in flight 
was now becoming more clear to him. But 
the journey was fruitless. He looked out 
from the heights upon a sea dotted with crags 
and isles; often shining in still lagoons of 
sunlit water; showing here and there the 
hulls of fishing boats, but giving no other an- 
swer to his question. A great fear — the fear 
that Marian had, indeed, been taken by the 
cruiser — ^began to give place to the supposi- 
tion that she had found a refuge upon the 
shore. Nevertheless, he continued to watch 
and to wait, and would not return to the 
yacht until the quick eyes of his companion 
perceived the danger of the place and of the 
scene. 

They have put out a boat, sir,” said the 
man; “ what’s more, they fire a gun.” 

A puff of white smoke floated up from 
the deck of the distant cruiser, and anon the 
muted roar of a gun was to be heard. Paul 


THE QUEST OF THE WOMAN. 26 1 

delayed no longer upon the island, but has- 
tened to regain his ship and there to consult 
with those who, in their rough way, offered 
him so precious a sympathy. 

“Well!” cried old John merrily, when 
the dinghy came to view. “Ye have news, 
sir? ” 

Paul shook his head. 

“ The cruiser is putting off a boat; that is 
my news, John.” 

“To hell with the boat! What’s a boat 
got to do with us? ” 

Paul laughed sadly while he swung up on 
to the deck of the Esmeralda. 

“You are good fellows,” he said; “and 
you have been true friends to me. It is no 
good to deceive you any more, and it would 
be wrong to bring trouble upon you. I am 
the one to answer for this business, and I am 
ready to answer. What happens now is noth- 
ing to me. But you, my friends, you must 
all go ashore and leave me to make my an- 
swer alone.” 

John Hook thrust his hands deep into his 
trousers pockets. 


262 


KRONSTADT. 


“ Look here, sir,” he said determinedly; 
if it’s questions. I’m on that job. And let 
me arst you this — am I a Britisher or am I a 
furringer? ” ■ 

He looked appealingly to the others, who 
said knowingly — 

‘'Ay, ay; that’s the question, John.” 

Paul laughed again. 

“ I do not care what you are,” said he; 
“ it is sufficient that you have been my 
friends.” 

“ And friends we’ll remain. Leave you 
here alone! Is my name John Hook? Is 
my port Swansea, or ain’t it? Am I goin’ 
ashore because a lot of lubbers cruise round 
and fire off a popgun? I’m derned if I 
don’t blush like a gal to hear you say so, 
sir!” 

Paul held out his hand and shook the 
great rough paw of the English seaman. 

“ I wish you were my countryman,” he 
said. “ If you will not go ashore, you shall 
stay with me to the end, and it shall be as 
God wills. I have few friends- now. I have 
no longer a country.” 


THE QUEST OF THE WOMAN. 


His voice failed him and he turned away, 
pretending to watch the coming boat which 
was now being rowed rapidly toward the 
shore. It was as though the messenger of 
destiny winged across the sea. The hand of 
Fate appeared to be thrust out toward him. 
There was sunlight for his eyes to-day, but 
to-morrow there would be darkness — the 
darkness of the pitiless reckoning. He saw 
himself carried back to Kronstadt in igno- 
miny. He would stand alone, he said. The 
little head, which should have nestled upon 
his shoulder, was to comfort him no more. 
And he had no longer a reproach upon his 
lips. The friendship of the stout hearts that 
sailed with him was a thing precious to him 
beyond words. 

The Esmeralda had been warped to a rock 
sufficiently high to conceal her mast from any 
passing ship. The hands clambered upon 
this rock when the dinghy was hauled up; 
and therefrom they watched the long-boat 
which the Russian warship had lowered. 
Phlegmatic as they were in word and deed, 
the steady approach of the strange craft set 


264 


KRONSTADT. 


their hearts beating with suppressed excite- 
ment. They could not turn their eyes away; 
they watched her foot by foot as she drew 
toward them. Some even whispered schemes 
for their defence; others spoke of the skip- 
per’s pistol and of their own good knives. 
John Hook alone cried out upon such an 
idea, and his word prevailed. 

“ There’s twenty men yonder if there’s 
one,” said he doggedly; “supposing as this 
is their port, do you think they’re bringing 
umbrellas with them? My eyes and limbs, 
that’s a woman’s notion! And who’s goin’ to 
sit here for a Rooshian swab to play marbles 
with him? Not me, by thunder! But I’ll 
tell you what, mates, if we cast off, and back 
out while they’re coming round, there’ll be 
three hundred yards between us before they 
wake up to it. And there won’t be nobody 
on deck besides me for them to play at pig- 
eons with. It’s for the guv’nor to say; but I 
know what I should do if old Death’s-head 
yonder was coming down my street.” 

“Ay, ay; John’s right,” cried the other. 

“ I leave it to you,” exclaimed Paul, in- 


THE QUEST OF THE WOMAN. 265 

differently; “ I care no longer. The time for 
that has passed.” 

They cast the ship free at the words and 
vStood with boat-hooks to steady her. So 
great was the silence of doubt and expectancy 
that the sound of the men breathing was like 
a whisper of voices. Yard by yard the 
strange craft crept into the bay. They could 
see the cutlasses her men carried, could read 
the name upon her prow. The agony of 
doubt was scarce to be endured when the 
lieutenant in charge of the boat cried an easy, 
and his crew ceased to row. Then indeed 
Paul said that the hour was at hand, that the 
dream was done with. 

For twenty seconds, perhaps, the long- 
boat lay still upon the lagoon. The men, 
watching and waiting upon the decks of the 
Esmeralda, shut their eyes and stood like 
figures of bronze. But that was the supreme 
moment; and when they had counted twenty, 
their hearts began to quicken with a tremu- 
lous hope. For the oars were dipped again; 
and going about suddenly, the Russian boat 

made off toward the further side of the island. 

18 


266 


KRONSTADT. 


The sigh of relief from the watchers was al- 
most a nervous titter. Paul found that his 
forehead was wet and cold with icy perspi- 
ration. 

“ It is not for us after all. I do not un- 
derstand,” he said. 

‘‘ But I do,” cried John Hook excitedly. 
“ Look yonder, sir. D’ye see that white 
barge with three masts? It’s a leper ship, I 
reckon. The monks aboard ’em load with 
lepers as we load with coal. They go from 
island to island until they’ve took a cargo, 
and then they head north for the ’orspital. 
That’s what brings old Death’s-head this 
way. He must have a patient for ’em.” 

It was as he said. The cruiser’s boat was 
rowed straight to a lumbering barge-like ship 
which had appeared suddenly in the centre of 
the lagoon. Twenty minutes later the small 
boat was but a speck in the offing, and the 
men of the Esmeralda were at dinner. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE SHIP OF THE GOLDEN CROSS. 

The strange craft which Marian had seen 
from the beach of her island lay, perhaps, a 
quarter of a mile from the shore. It had 
three masts, whereof two were very short, 
while the third was lofty and capped with a 
great golden crucifix which shone glitteringly 
in the crimson light of the setting sun. A 
brown jib, half lowered, flapped to the fitful 
breeze; and a vast mainsail, resembling in 
many ways the lateen sails of the South, half 
hid the decks from view. Marian observed 
that the colour of the vessel’s hull was a dull 
white, ornamented with many crimson crosses 
and with that which she thought must be an 
inscription, though her eyes could not read 
the lettering. At the same time she could 

make out the figures of many men standing 

267 


268 


KRONSTADT. 


together upon the poop of the ship; and a 
long white boat, which had carried four of its 
crew to the beach, now lay with its bow upon 
the sands and its stern rolled by the breaking 
waves. Of the four men who rowed the boat, 
three sat still at their oars, but the other stood 
in close talk with the recluse whom Marian 
had watched and feared earlier in the day. 
She could see that the two men were asking 
the meaning of her visit to the island, for 
they pointed often to her own boat and 
walked a little way to examine it more 
closely. 

Her first thought was to go out and 
speak with them, telling, if she could, of her 
condition, and begging them to give her pas- 
sage to some more friendly shore. But a 
subtle instinct, which spoke of the unfathom- 
able superstition of the Fins and of their cru- 
elty when those superstitions were aroused, 
held her a little while to her place of shelter 
behind the great boulder, and therefore she 
watched the men. Much to her surprise, she 
perceived that the recluse was no old man, as 
she had thought, but one still in the spring- 


THE SHIP OF TPIE GOLDEN CROSS. 269 

time of life. His long flowing locks of black 
hair, and the coarse robe which clothed him, 
deceived her. She had never imagined a 
young monk. As for the other, he also wore 
the rough habit of brown stuff, but his hair 
was short and crisp, and his face was the face 
of an intelligent man. That he read the 
story of the visit aright she could not doubt. 
He pointed often toward the distant Gulf with 
a gesture which seemed to tell her that the 
secret, not only of her presence upon the 
island, but also of her flight from Kronstadt, 
was known to him; and this sent her back 
to the shelter of the higher rocks, where she 
stood trembling with a vague dread, not so 
much of the discovery as of the men. 

The last of the day was ebbing at this 
time; the fitful dusk of northern latitudes 
gave gray hues to all things about her, so 
that the men upon the distant ship were as 
figures moving in shadow. A haze of night 
floated above the waters. She seemed to be 
the habitant of a strange world, an unreal 
world of fear and fantasy. The visit of the 
cowled friars to her shore accentuated her 


2/0 


KRONSTADT. 


loneliness. She crouched upon the rocks and 
cried despairingly for her lover, as though 
some miracle would wing her voice across 
the sea. Never until that moment had 
she realised 'how this love had grown 
about her heart protectingly, so that with- 
out it the very fount of life ebbed and was 
dried up. 

“ Paul, my husband,” she cried. “ Come 
to me — I am alone — alone! ” 

Voices answered her, but not the voice of 
him she called. She raised her pretty head to 
listen, and she heard sweet, melodious music 
floating to her from the distant ship. It rose 
and fell as a song of the placid sea; a har- 
mony of many voices united in the evening 
hymn. The rocks gave it back in lingering 
echoes. It was as though nereids had come 
up from the depths to hymn the setting sun, 
to greet the darkness and the hour of their 
amours. When the last note died away she 
continued still to hunger for those sweet 
sounds; but other singers raised their voices 
in turn to chant a dirge-like litany, and this 
was a true hymn to the darkness, so weird, 


THE SHIP OF THE GOLDEN CROSS. 27 1 

SO mournful, so full of the suggestion of 
death and after. 

Marian shuddered at this new song for it 
carried her back to the place of shadows. 
When she had listened to it* a little while, 
the harmonies became more clear, the note 
of the sonorous voices deeper. She awoke 
to the fact that the singers, whoever tiiey 
were, had left their ship and were coming 
to shore. Lanterns now cast their yel- 
low light upon the pulsing swell. A flame of 
torches illumined weirdly the rugged faces 
of a company which seemed to have voyaged 
from some monasterv of the ultimate seas. 
Anon, three boats touched the sands, and a 
band of men, all garbed in the pilgrim’s dress, 
began to gather upon the shore and to con- 
gregate about some dark object which the 
shadows hid from the watcher’s eyes. She 
perceived, to her surprise, that an acolyte in 
a cassock and cotta carried a brazen crucifix 
on high. Torch-bearers walked at his side. 
Thurifers swung censers, from which an odor- 
ous smoke floated perfumingly on the still air. 
Presently a procession was formed and began 


2J2 


KRONSTADT. 


to wind its way to the cliff of the island. The 
dirge-like chant arose again. The burden 
which the men carried was no longer hidden 
from the watcher’s eyes. She saw that it was 
a coffin. The monks had come ashore to 
bury their dead. 

The procession advanced slowly, for the 
thurifers turned often to cense the coffin and 
the priest to sprinkle it with holy water. Sol- 
emnly and deliberately the singers set out for 
the grass plateau by the well from which 
Marian had drunk earlier in the day. She on 
her part stood white and trembling in the 
shadow of the cliff. Though it was plain to 
her that the men had not come to the island 
in quest of her, she feared the visitation as 
she had never feared anything in all her life. 
The hour, the misty twilight, the brown hab- 
its, tortured her imagination. She did not 
ask herself wherefrom such strange voyagers 
had come; her thought was to escape them, 
even at the risk of discovery. But escape was 
not to be. So close to her did the procession 
pass that she could have touched the cross- 
bearer with her hand. She beheld the faces 



Slie, on her part, stood white and trembling. 







. 4 


I , 


f 


ifc ^ 

ifii?'' 

.i K» 

* * * ^ • 

.: -. . . 



I 



THE SHIP OF THE GOLDEN CROSS. 273 

of the monks and read in them the visual rec- 
ord of fasting and of an emaciating faith. 
One by one they passed her; here an old man 
bent with the penance of years, there a youth 
whose eyes were aflame with the light of 
visions; here a face that spoke of the with- 
ered flesh, there lips which had fed upon the 
luxuries of life and still hungered for them. 
And when the monks were gone up, others 
followed in the grim train — old men hob- 
bling, women weeping, even children. Mar- 
ian looked at the faces of these, and her heart 
seemed to be stilled. The mission of the ship 
was a mystery to her no more. 

“ They are the lepers! ” she cried, and so 
tried to draw back from them, as though God 
would open the rocks behind her and hide 
from her terrified eyes the awful sights they 
looked upon. 


CHAPTER XXL 

ACHERON OF THE WATERS. 

The procession passed slowly, for many 
stragglers followed the priests. The minutes 
of waiting were as hours to the terrified 
woman. Often the lantern’s light flashed in 
her very eyes; she felt the hot breath of the 
lepers upon her cheeks; she thought their 
dreadful hands would touch her. Whence 
they had come, whose ship it was, she did not 
know. The story of the monks of the North- 
ern seas and of their mission to the outcasts 
of the islands was unknown to her. She saw 
rather a visitation of spirits; the dirge was 
a sound as of the woe of life; the graves had 
given up their dead to haunt her. While she 
had the impulse to flee, to seek, if it must be, 
the refuge of the waves, the ghostly shapes 

still held her to the rock. Moaning voices of 
274 


ACHERON OF THE WATERS. 


275 


the lagging sick mingled with the melan- 
choly songs of the billows. She beheld the 
fanatical carousals of the desperate, who 
laughed like imbeciles, or cast themselves 
foaming upon the grass, or shrieked to heaven 
for the mercy of death. Far above on the 
heights the monks were digging a grave for 
him who had died at sea. Their litanies 
echoed as sweet interludes to the cacopho- 
nous cries below. She repented bitterly 
that she had not gone down earlier in the day 
and spoken with the recluse of the well. She 
remembered that she was a woman, alone 
with this rabble, upon whom God’s curse 
seemed to have fallen. 

At this time, no memory of the peril of 
the island troubled her. She thought no 
more that she might be left alone upon it; 
nay, she prayed that the sick might return 
speedily to their ship and leave her to the 
silence and the night. Hours seemed to pass 
before the monks came down from the 
heights again. She watched the lanterns 
dancing upon the hillside as a mariner 
watches a beacon of the shore. Often she 


2/6 


KRONSTADT. 


said to herself, They are coming now; I 
hear them.” Then the litanies would begin 
anew; the garish yellow stars would be still 
again; the hoarse laughter or the weeping of 
some leper near to her would crush her hope. 
Childlike, she fell to counting, and said that 
when she had numbered a thousand the ship 
would sail. But of that employment she soon 
wearied, and, impatiently, she crept out a 
little way from her place of shelter and stood 
for a moment that the breeze of the sea might 
blow upon her heated face. In that instant 
a leper observed her and sprang up with a 
loud cry to seize her by the wrist and drag 
her toward the open of the beach. It was as 
though the ultimate horror had gripped her, 
had come out of the darkness to embrace her 
in a loathly and indescribable embrace. 

She dared not to look upon the man’s 
face, but vaguely, for speech was choked and 
all her limbs were benumbed, she perceived 
that he wore a tattered green uniform and 
carried a knife stuck in a worn girdle. She 
heard a torrent of words poured into her 
shrinking ear; but had not Russian enough 


ACHERON OF THE WATERS. 


277 


to interpret them. Once she thought that 
the man would have crushed her in his lusty 
arms, and when she knew that he said, “ Thou 
art such as I have lost.” When release of 
tongue came, she raised her voice again and 
again in shrieks of uncontrollable fear, and at 
this other lepers ran up to the place. Soon a 
rabble surrounded her, and the cry was ut- 
tered that she was a spy. From twenty 
throats she heard the fierce accusation, “ The 
Englishwoman: kill her! into the sea with 
her!” 

Women, ragged and blear-eyed, forced 
their way to the heart of the throng; young 
girls laughed hysterically and tried to strike 
her down; old men raised their sticks to beat 
her bloodless face. She was carried on, she 
knew not whither; countless eyes, shining 
with the fire of disease, looked into her own; 
fleshless claws ripped the dress from her 
shoulders; they would have torn her limb 
from limb but for the strong arm of the man 
who first had gripped her. But he, roused to 
some dream of the days before the curse, 
never once released his hold of her. He bore 


2/8 


KRONSTADT. 


her high above the throng; he answered their 
curses with a madman’s laughter; the blows 
fell upon his own face; they were as a flagel- 
lation of straws to him; women struck him; 
he forced them back and trampled upon them. 
On toward the sea he bore her. He had the 
strength of ten men, the passions of the ma- 
niac aroused, the maniac’s purpose. They 
stood from him at last terrified; the devils of 
their own superstitions possessed him; the 
cries ceased, their sticks were lowered ; he was 
alone when he dragged the woman into her 
boat and thrust it from the shore. 

Marian had shut her eyes when the crowd 
first pressed upon her; she thought that this 
was the moment of her death; she waited for 
some blow which would still the life within 
her and permit her to rise up in spirit above 
these horrid sights and sounds. Strong as 
her desire was for insensibility, for a trance of 
the mind, she did not swoon, nor lose her 
sense of time and place, and of the peril. She 
heard distinctly the fervid ragings of the mad- 
man who defended her; his hot breath was 
upon her cheek; his loathly touch was a tor- 


ACHERON OF THE WATERS. 


2/9 

ture. But still she would not look at him. 
While the blood surged in her ears, and her 
brain whirled, and her limbs were paralysed, 
she had no wish for life or freedom, no hope 
but that death would be quick to come. 
When she felt the grip released and sank help- 
less from the man’s arms, she was conscious 
still that he was beside her. She opened her 
eyes at last to discover that the boat was al- 
ready some way from the shore. She could 
see the lanterns dancing on the hillside, could 
hear the voices of the priests above the clam- 
our of the rabble. The man had saved her 
life, though whither he carried her, or to 
what Acheron of the night, she dared not 
think. 

The leper was huge in stature and of great 
strength. He plied the oar with a giant’s 
arms, so that the yacht’s boat shot out quick- 
ly toward the broad of the lagoon. For the 
time being he appeared to have forgotten the 
woman at his feet. His words were incoher- 
ent and unceasing; he chattered horribly. 
Presently the island was but a blot upon the 
sea; the lanterns were twinkling stars. No 


28 o 


KRONSTADT. 


longer were voices to be heard; the stillness 
of the night lay like a cloak upon the waters. 
Marian said that she was being carried out of 
the world. She shivered with the cold and 
the spray cast upon her face. Gradually 
there crept upon her a new dread — dread of 
him who had saved her. She feared to move, 
lest, moving, she might remind him of her 
presence. When he ceased to row she could 
hear her own heart beating. 

For a spell the man stood gazing with 
wistful eyes to the shore he had left. Then 
suddenly he turned and uttered a great cry, 
for he had forgotten the woman; forgotten 
why he was in the boat at all, and how he had 
been driven from his companions. But now 
the impulse, which had led him to clasp her 
in his arms, was re-born. He sank upon his 
knees and whispered wild endearments; he 
stroked her hands gently as one strokes an 
animal; he pushed her wet hair from her fore- 
head and held back her head that he might 
look into her eyes. The name by which he 
called her was the name of one who had been 
a wife to him in Petersburg long years ago. 


ACHERON OF THE WATERS. 


281 


When she would have drawn back from him 
shudderingly, the words of love gave place 
to threats and ravings; he seized her by both 
wrists, and would have kissed her upon the 
lips. She screamed with fear, and rolled from 
his embrace. 

Long minutes passed before either moved. 
The leper had risen again and once more 
looked out into the night. Marian was sob- 
bing hysterically. 

“ Paul,” she moaned; O my God! Paul, 
come to me! ” 

She thought at first that she heard it in 
her sleep. Faintly across the sea the answer 
came. But the madman listened with ears 
erect and hand stayed. Once, twice, the cry 
was raised; the hail of English voices. When 
the little wanderer understood that it was no 
dream, but that someone upon the sea had 
answered her, she seemed to hear the music 
of heaven itself. Courage came back to her 
in that supreme moment. She leaped up 
from the bows of the boat and sprang into 
the waters. A loud demoniacal laugh fol- 
lowed her as the spuming sea closed over her 
19 


282 


KRONSTADT. 


he;ad. It was the laughter of the leper, who 
had forgotten her again. 

The sea was still as a lake in summer; the 
moon, new risen, cast a glow of silvery light 
upon the sleeping lagoon. Marian felt the 
water cold and sweet upon her face. She had 
been a swimmer since her childhood; she 
swam now as one hunted in the seas. On- 
ward toward the cry of English voices! God 
would not drag her down, she said; she 
thought already to feel her lover’s embrace. 
Life might be before her yet — the life with 
him she had left. To-morrow she might nes- 
tle on his shoulder again and tell him that 
nothing now should carry her from his side. 
Though her clothes were soaked and weighty, 
though the gentle waves rolled often over her 
mouth, she swam on with courage unbroken. 
“ I go to Paul,” she said. ‘‘ Oh, God help me 
— I cannot die here! ” The nether world 
seemed open to receive her; but the stars 
shone above; the gate of heaven was her 
lamp in the sky. A future of love and 
affection was imagined by her awakened 
brain. 


ACHERON OF THE WATERS. 283 

‘‘ Paul/’ she cried, “ come to me — I will 
not die! ” 

There was a pathos of an eternity of suf- 
fering in the prayer; but the night of her life 
was at an end, and the God-given day was 
about to dawn. Even as she cried out, and 
thought that cold hands were dragging her 
down to the icy depths below, a boat shot out 
from the loom of the darkness; strong arms 
gripped her; she saw her lover bending over 
her, she saw the star-lit heaven; warm lips 
kissed her forehead; she was crushed in a 
close embrace — the embrace of a man who 
held her to him as though never more in life 
should she escape his arms again. 

“ Beloved, it is I — Paul. Oh, God be 
thanked, she lives, she lives! ” 

Swiftly he bore her to the Esmeralda and 
to her cabin. She had no strength to speak 
to him, but holding both his hands, she fell 
into a sweet sleep, and the gardens of Eng- 
land were opened for her while she slept. 

t 

At dawn of the day the Esmeralda sighted 
in the far distance one of the warships of the 


284 


KRONSTADT. 


Baltic Fleet. But old John hitched up his 
breeches at the spectacle, and expressed him- 
self as he was wont to do. 

To hell with that,” said he; “ they’re the 
wrong side of us this time, mates. We’ll be 
in Stockholm by eight bells.” 

Old John spoke a true word. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


PRISONER OF LOVE. 

On the morning of the fifteenth day after 
the flight from Kronstadt, Paul sat at the 
open window of his apartment in the Strand. 
The bells of St. Martin’s at Charing Cross 
had just chimed half past nine; the streets 
below his window were alive with the hum of 
voices and the echo of steps. He had visited 
London once or twice in his days of tutelage; 
but this spectacle of massed humanity, of 
countless men surging toward the East in 
quest of the daily wage, was new and won- 
derful to him as when first he beheld it. This 
vast multitude, looking neither to the right 
hand nor to the left, what tragedies and come- 
dies of life it played every day! All the notes 
of the social scale seemed written upon that 

human score. Spruce stock-brokers lolled in 

285 


286 


KRONSTADT. 


hansom cabs on their way to ’Change: sleek 
barristers thrust themselves through the press 
as though the briefs they had waited for these 
long years lay to-day upon their tables; 
clerks from the suburbs passed with slow step 
or fast, as the office hours dictated; smart 
girls carried themselves proudly, buoyed up 
with consciousness of sex and environment; 
’buses lumbered by with a harvest of human 
grain heaped upon their roofs; only the 
clergy dallied before the shop-windows or 
sauntered contentedly in the sunlight. 

Paul had heard of London as an abode of 
gloom, a city without a sky, a mighty capital 
of fog and mists. This morning of a glorious 
spring gave the lie to the reproach. Not- 
withstanding that April had many days still 
to run, the sun shone warmingly; the air was 
fresh and sweet as though blowing upon the 
city from a perfumed garden. And to the 
sweetness of morning was added the comfort 
of the English rooms he had engaged for 
himself and his “ sister ” Marian. It had 
been a solemn compact between them that 
she should not communicate with her English 


PRISONER OF LOVE. 


287 


friends, should not even see them, until that 
future they loved to speak of was something 
more than the dream of lovers. And she had 
respected the understanding as though it were 
a law to her. 

“ I owe my life to you,” she had said; 
“ I will see no one, speak to no one until you 
wish it. But I must write to Dick.” 

“ And tell them that you are in Eng- 
land! ” he exclaimed, a little anxiously. “ If 
you write, they will come here; they will ask 
you for your secrets. I know that you will 
tell them nothing; but I do not wish you to 
see them; I do not wish to meet the man 
who tempted you.” 

“ I will not see him, Paul, dearest; God 
knows, if you asked me, I would never see 
him again.” 

She had begun to understand her lover 
wholly at this time; to understand him with 
that intimate appreciation of moods which 
nothing but the magnetism of one mind for 
another can make clear. Great as was his 
love for her, the thought that she carried in 
her clever head those secrets, of which he had 


288 


KRONSTADT. 


been the guardian, haunted him now that she 
was in England, a free agent beyond the reach 
of the Russian. A soldier’s creed of honour 
was ever upon his lips. “ I will not betray 
my country,” he said always. He knew that 
marriage would seal her lips for ever. But 
until they stood before the altar together he 
must rely absolutely upon her promise. 
What their future was to be,, he scarce dared 
to think. The son of a Russian noble, he 
knew not how to serve. A stranger in a 
strange country, what miracle should give 
him livelihood? If he married at once, it 
would be to cast himself blindly upon the sea 
of life, trusting that some wind of destiny 
would carry him to a friendly shore. A great 
sympathy for her prevailed even above his 
passionate longing to call her wife. 

‘‘ We are two children drifting,” he said. 
‘‘ God alone knows where the journey will 
carry us; but we will be together always. 
You wish it, Marian? ” 

She put her arms about his neck. 

‘‘We shall not drift while I have a home 
in your heart,” she said. 


I 


PRISONER OF LOVE. 


289 


That was upon the day after they had ar- 
rived in London. They had gravitated to- 
ward the city; drawn there by no impulse 
that was defined, but only by the hope that 
London would befriend them. Much as 
Marian desired to see her child-brother again; 
yearn as she might for the lanes and villages 
of Devonshire, she did not speak of these de- 
sires to her lover. Had he asked her, she 
would have gone with him, on the day of 
their arrival, straight to some church, and 
there have given herself to him for ever. She 
welcomed the remembrance that it was hers 
now to play the strong part. She would help 
him and compel him to forget. For her sake 
he had cut himself off from friends and for- 
tune. His courage, which had saved her at 
Kronstadt, here moved her to pity. A child 
lost in a maze of streets could not have been 
more helpless than the man she loved, cast 
out by fortune to this city of exile. She be- 
gan to plan that she might work for him, 
might build the home of her promise. The 
desperate task did not affright her. 

If I had my health, if I could have the 


290 


KRONSTADT. 


child near me, it would be easy,” she thought. 

These are the days when a clever woman 
earns a living for herself in London, and I 
have brains.” 

The ambition was well enough, but the 
execution lagged. They had come from 
Stockholm straight to this apartment by 
Charing Cross, and there, passing as brother 
and sister — no difficult achievement, since 
Paul spoke English fluently — they waited for 
the light. She obeyed his wish that her ar- 
rival should be kept a stern secret. Of her 
few friends in London, none knew that she 
had left Kronstadt. She did not write to the 
child; she never left her rooms. Paul, in his 
turn, remembered that one who had been a 
comrade of his student days, Feodor Talvi 
of Novgorod, was now at the Russian Em- 
bassy in Chesham Square. He wrote to him, 
and to his kinsman Prince Tolma, telling them 
of his condition and of his purpose. “ I am 
no traitor to Russia,” he wrote. ‘‘ I am here 
to keep her secrets, not to betray them.” 

The letters were despatched, but many 
days passed and no answer was returned. 


PRISONER OF LOVE. 


291 


On the fifteenth day, when Paul sat at his 
window waiting for Marian to come down to 
breakfast, he began to tell himself that his 
friends would be friends to him no more. Pie 
had thought his kinsman, Tolma, to be a man 
of broad mind and generous impulses, one 
who had lost a Russian’s creed in the teach- 
ing of many cities. But the earnest appeal 
he had despatched to Paris remained unan- 
swered. He said that the Prince was not in 
the city; he was at Monaco, or cruising in 
his yacht. Paul would not believe that one, 
who had loved him as a son, would desert him 
in this hour of misfortune. He shrank from 
the truth, and would not reckon with it. 

Marian entered the sitting-room while he 
was still musing at the window. She crossed 
it with girlish step, and bent down quickly to 
kiss his cheek. Regardless of time or place, 
he sprang up and took her in his arms. 

‘'Dear little one!” he said, “you bring 
me back to earth again. And you have roses 
on your cheeks to-day. There is no doctor 
like one’s own country. You have slept, 
Marian? ” 


292 


KRONSTADT. 


She would not tell him of her night of 
waking; nor had he eyes to see that the flush 
upon her cheeks was a flush of weakness. 

‘‘ I sleep always,” she answered, with a 
little laugh; you must not worry about 
that.” 

He pushed her back from him, still hold- 
ing her hands. 

Oh,” he said, and that is our new 
dress! Am I not a good modiste, little one? 
Is it not splendid? I shall open a shop here, 
and you will make my fortune.” 

She kissed his hands, and turned to the 
breakfast-table. 

“ I shall send you to buy my dresses when 
we are married,” she exclaimed. “You 
won’t mind them laughing ” 

“I mind? Sapristi! Did I mind yester- 
day when I bought the ‘ triumph,’ and twelve 
young ladies fitted it on for me, and the bou- 
tiquier himself carried it to the cab? Norn 
de Dieu! It was a procession, and I was the 
flag. You must lose your clothes again, and 
get another cold, Marian. It will amuse me 
to buy your dresses.” 


PRISONER OF LOVE. 


293 


He had shopped for her on the previous 
day; for she carried no dresses from Russia, 
and Stockholm had furnished her with a poor 
wardrobe. Her promise not to go abroad in 
the streets of London she kept faithfully, as 
much from will as from weakness. The chill 
and horror of her night at the island of the 
Holy Well had eaten into her little store of 
strength. She feared that some dangerous 
illness would overtake her, and that he would 
be alone to wage the unequal fight. 

'' You have letters, dear? ” she asked him, 
while she poured out his tea and busied her- 
self with his breakfast. 

He shook his head a little sadly. 

“ Feodor Talvi cannot be in London; I 
shall hear from him the day he arrives. We 
were as brothers; he must listen to me at 
least. As for Tolma, it will be sooner or 
later. He is not a man of this city or of that. 
He makes the world his home, and wherever 
the sun shines there is his fireside. But I 
know that he will help ine when my letter 
reaches him. He cares nothing for other 
people’s stories. He has called me his son 


294 


KRONSTADT. 


since I was twelve years old. I wrote to him 
as to a father. While we wait for their help, 
we have two hundred pounds — your English 
pounds — to spend. When we have spent 
those, there is the Esmeralda to sell. I shall 
order her to the Isle of Wight, where all your 
yachting people go, and she will bring us 
twenty thousand roubles at the least. They 
will give us time to think and to plan. I have 
thought a little already, and the way seems 
clearer to me. After all, a strong man does 
not starve when he is willing to work. I can 
teach the Russian language if the worst 
comes, and box the ears of little boys who 
will not learn.” 

He laughed merrily at the idea, and 
passed his cup for tea. She would not tell 
him that she could not share his hopes; her 
face wore a bright smile when she lifted it to* 
look at him. 

“ You are making a home of England al- 
ready,” she said; I am happy to think it is 
so. It will all come right by-and-bye, when 
I am strong and can work again. You must 
not forget me when you speak of your plans. 


PRISONER OF LOVE. 


295 

I could not be an idle woman ; I should go 
mad.” 

“ You shall be the mistress of my house,” 
he answered, with a touch of the old pride. 
“ I am the heir of Tolma, and I shall know 
how to find a home for you.” 

“ Yes, but while we wait, dear — there is 
no dishonour here in England because a 
woman works. You were not born for the 
things you speak of; you do not know the 
difficulties. It is I who have learnt how to 
face the world and not to fear what people 
call independence. Your friends may write 
to you, or they may not. But it will help us 
both if there are no drones in the hive. You 
will be happy because I am happy, and I shall 
come to forgive myself then.” 

“ There is nothing to forgive,” he said 
tenderly. “ God knows, it is happiness 
enough to hear your voice all day, and to 
tell myself that I shall kiss you when the 
morning comes. By-and-bye I shall not wait 
for the morning — that will be when the 
priest has spoken. You understand, little 
one.^ 


296 


KRONSTADT. 


They had risen from the table and stood 
together in the shadow. He drew her to him 
winningly and kissed her white face again and 
again. 

I understand, dearest — a little,” she said, 
with a new flush upon her cheeks. 

‘‘ A little — it is not more than that? You 
still ask yourself questions as you did at 
Kronstadt.” 

“ Certainly, I ask myself questions — but 
not the questions of carnival.” 

You want to run away again? ” 

‘‘ Oh, yes — when I am strong enough.” 

He looked into her eyes questioningly. 
The love of jest was written there. 

“ Arrivons! ” he said; “where would you 
run to, here in London? ” 

“To the church,” she whispered, and so 
hid her head upon his shoulder. 

A knock upon the door of the room put 
them apart. She turned to the glass to 
straighten her hair while he tore open the 
telegram, which the slut of the house deliv- 
ered triumphantly, as though she carried let- 
ters of gold. 


PRISONER OF LOVE. 


297 

“ For the gentleming,” she said, with 
great satisfaction, and he’s a-waiting.” 

Marian looked over Paul’s shoulder to 
read the message. 

‘‘ Is it from your friends, dearest? ” she 
asked anxiously. 

“ It is from Feodor Talvi,” he answered, 
while the hand which offered her the paper 
shook with pleasure and excitement. “ I am 
to go to him at once. I told you that we 
were as brothers; read that, and write the an- 
swer for me. I will see him to-day — now. 
There are no more troubles, thank God! ” 

He began to search about for his hat and 
gloves; he did not see the shadow of doubt 
which flitted upon her face. When the mes- 
sage was written, she gave him instructions 
for his momentous journey to South Audley 
Street, where the house of Talvi was. 

“You must take a cab, and it must wait 
for you,” she said determinedly; “ I have a 
good mind to pin a card inside the flap of 
your coat — or you will forget where we live. 
Do not let him keep you long, dearest.” 

“ He shall not keep me an hour; he shall 
20 


298 


KRONSTADT. 


come here to be presented. We will all go to 
the great hotel to dine together. I told you 
that my friends would not desert me.” 

He babbled on incessantly while she 
picked threads from his new frock-coat and 
pinned in his buttonhole a spray of the lilies 
he had bought for her. When they had said 
good-bye for the tenth time, she watched him 
from the window, a manly figure, broad and 
confident in the throng below. Many turned 
to look at one who carried himself with such 
a fine air; but he saw nothing save the white 
face at the window — the face for which he had 
dared all and had brought himself to this land 
of exile. 

“ She shall be mv wife before the week 
has run,” he said to himself as he went. ‘‘ I 
forget the rest when she is near me! ” 

• • • « • • 

% 

The hour of his promise passed swiftly, 
and found Marian still waiting for the sound 
of his steps upon the stair. A second hour 
was numbered, and a third. She began to 
count the minutes; she took her stand at last 
by the open window and scanned the faces 


PRISONER OF LOVE. 


299 

of all who came eastward. But his face was 
not among them. When six o’clock struck, 
and the throngs were hurrying home again, 
and Paul did not return, there came to her 
suddenly the thought that some peril had 
overtaken him. That the hand of the Rus- 
sian is everywhere active had long been 
known to her. She began to blame herself 
that she had permitted him to leave her. 
Since that night of nameless horror upon the 
sea, her shattered nerves were quick to bring 
foreboding upon her. 

‘‘ O my God! ” she said at last; “ if they 
have trapped him here in London! ” 

Dusk succeeded to the sunshine of the 
day; night loomed over the city; but Marian 
continued to watch at her window, and to 
pray God that no ill had befallen the man she 
loved. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE UNFORESEEN. 

Paul rested his gloved hand upon the 
doors of his cab; he smoked contentedly. 
For the first time since he had set foot in 
London the streets and the people were with- 
out interest to him. A boyish readiness to 
accept the possible for the actual had already 
carried him in his mind to the realisation of 
fine schemes. He was sure that fate would 
work some miracle of surprise for his par- 
ticular benefit. 

“ I shall tell the truth; it is no good to 
conceal anything,” he thought. “ Feodor 
will write to the Prince at Petersburg and say 
that I am here in London protecting the se- 
crets of my city. If they had kept Marian 
at Alexander, there would have been trouble 
with the English Government; possibly, they 

300 


THE UNFORESEEN. 


301 


would have been compelled to release her, 
and then she would have returned here with 
all those plans in her head. I do not see why 
it should be so great an affair. I have done 
them a service, and they know that I am not 
a traitor. Granted that they will not restore 
me to my regiment, there is other work for a 
» clever man to do. I might even go to the 
Balkans and serve Ferdinand or the Aus- 
trians. When they learn how small my of- 
fence is, they will not be too hard upon me. 
And I shall marry the little girl I love, and 
take her where these English fellows will not 
trouble her. Ma foi! what crowds, and not a 
soldier among them all! ” 

He was passing the Criterion at the mo- 
ment. The crowd of idlers, the youth of bars 
and stage-doors, the sleek dandy, the hasten- 
ing clerk, moved him to a fine contempt for 
their stooping bodies and undrilled gait. A 
soldier’s blood had run in his veins from his 
birth. To wear gold lace and to carry a 
sword, to strut in the market-place, to serve 
the Czar — what other career was open to an 
honest man? Merchants and traders — he re- 


302 


KRONSTADT. 


garded them as so many licensed thieves. 
Priests were necessary to minister to the su- 
perstitions of the people and to pray for the 
sins of the army. Professions were all very 
well for little men and knaves; but they were 
not a career. As for himself, he had inherited 
wits above the ordinary; but it never dawned 
on him that they could be used to other * 
ends than those of his regiment. There was 
no better scholar in Kronstadt, no more 
promising officer of artillery, but that, he said, 
was his good fortune. His wits would never 
have been awakened but for the music of the 
great guns and the clash of steel. Whatever 
lay before him, he determined to work to one 
end — the right to carry a sword once more, 
once more to be the master of the guns. 

The cab, bumping roughly against the 
kerb, brought him back from the success of 
thought to the broken baskets of reality. He 
saw that they were in a narrow street before 
the doors of a large but ugly house, which 
had no ornaments for its windows and little 
paint for its railings. He paid the cabman 
the money which Marian had put into his 


THE UNFORESEEN. 


303 


hand and rang the bell of the house timidly. 
A moment later he stood in a hall furnished 
with such exquisite taste, and so richly, that 
he could hardly believe it to be the hall of the 
house before which the cabman had set him 
down. But the man who opened the door 
was a Russian, and that reassured him. 

“ Count Feodor — is he at home? ” 

“ He expects you. He is waiting.” 

Paul entered the house confidently. The 
magnificence of the ante-chamber astonished 
him, for he had lived his life in barracks; and 
such splendour of habitation as he had known 
was the splendour of palaces at Petersburg or 
of hotels at Paris. When he followed the 
footman up a broad flight of stairs and 
through a conservatory upon the first floor, 
the same richness of decoration and of ameii- 
blement testified to the luxury with which 
Feodor Talvi had surrounded himself. The 
apartment into which he was shown at last, 
though of limited extent, was draped with ex- 
ceeding taste. Dainty water-colour sketches 
gave brightness to the silk-panelled walls; 
lounges cunningly contrived, were the em- 


304 


KRONSTADT. 


blems of ample leisure; flowers stood upon 
many little tables; a stained glass window hid 
from the eyes the ugly stone wall which 
bounded the garden of the mansion. Paul 
put his hat upon a sofa and sat down with a 
great air of content. 

“ These diplomatists,” he said to himself, 
they talk all day and dance all night. They 
are paid twenty thousand roubles a year for 
telling their neighbours that black is white. 
When there is any work to be done, they go 
home. Fichtre! it should be easy to tell lies 
for twenty thousand roubles a year. And 
Feodor has no need of them; he was rich 
always. He must be very rich now.” 

The footman left him when he had given 
his name, saying that the Count would be 
disengaged presently. Paul took up a Rus- 
sian paper and read it through. It was a 
pleasure to be carried in spirit back to Peters- 
burg and his home. He found himself think- 
ing about his friends of yesterday — old Ste- 
fanovitch who had loved him, and Bonzo 
whom he had feared and never understood. 
Karl, too, and Sergius and the others — had 


THE UNFORESEEN. 


305 


one among them taken pity upon him and 
remembered that he had been a friend of the 
old time? The pathos of memory was very 
bitter. He was as a child shut out from his 
old home. Imagination kindled for him a 
fire burning redly upon the hearth; the rays 
shone upon the unpitying faces of those who 
had been brothers to him. 

This occupation of regret carried him 
away from the house of Feodor Talvi, so that 
he forgot where he was and upon what er- 
rand he had come. When the little gilt 
clock upon the mantelshelf struck one, he 
put the paper down quickly and remembered 
with amazement that he had been an hour in 
the room. That rascal of a lackey must have 
forgotten to speak to the Count, he said. 
Impatiently he pressed the button of an elec- 
tric bell, and it was answ^ered immediately, 
not by the Russian who had brought him to 
the boudoir, but by an English servant, who 
seemed astounded to find a stranger in the 
place. 

You are waiting for the Count, sir? 

If I am waiting! ” exclaimed Paul, turn- 


3o6 


KRONSTADT. 


ing on the man as he would have turned upon 
a defaulting corporal, “ I have been here an 
hour! Is your master out, then? ” 

I don’t know, sir; I will ask, if you like 
— that is, if you wish it, sir.” 

Paul stared at the man with astonishment. 
If he had been in Russia he would have laid 
his cane sharply upon the shoulders of the 
rogue; but he was not in Russia, and the 
English barbarians did not permit a man to 
flog his servants. He was still seeking a 
word when the lackey shut the door and left 
him to reflect upon a state of civilisation so 
monstrous. 

The little gilt clock struck a quarter past 
one; the man had not returned. There was 
no sign of Feodor. Paul went to the door 
of the room and threw it open. The house 
was silent as one of his own cells at Alexan- 
der. He could hear a great clock ticking in 
the hall below; there was a rumble of passing 
carts from the street without, but of human 
life within the house no evidence. He re- 
turned to the boudoir and rang the bell for 
the second time. To his amazement the 


THE UNFORESEEN. 


307 

Russian answered him, and began at once to 
apologise. 

“ We expect the Count every moment,” 
he said stolidly; “ my master is sorry to keep 
you waiting. He has been called away. We 
are to offer you lunch. Excellency.” 

Paul assented indifferently. 

It is a peep-show,” he said with scorn; 
“ first the English rogue and then you. I 
shall speak to the Count, and tell him that he 
has made a mistake. You should both dance 
in a booth — to the music of a whip.” 

The Russian listened without changing a 
muscle of his face — he was accustomed to a 
role of servility. When Paul had finished, 
the man set to work to clear a little table and 
to get the lunch ready. Then he disappeared 
once more, and another quarter was struck 
upon the bell. 

‘‘ Sacre nom! ” said Paul, pacing the room 
angrily; “ the servants lie better than the 
master! If this is the house of a diplomatist, 
to the devil with the twenty thousand rou- 
bles! ” 

‘‘ My dear fellow! ” cried a voice at the 


3o8 


KRONSTADT. 


door, “ do you know that the chair you are 
kicking was once the property of Napo- 
leon? ” 

He turned and stood face to face with the 
intruder. A spectator would have said that 
the two men resembled each other as brothers 
of a house. Both were tall and finely built; 
both had flaxen hair and blue eyes; both held 
themselves as those trained in the school of 
the world. If the newcomer was slightly 
shorter than the captain of artillery, if his face 
was less sunburnt and more furrowed, that 
was to be set down to the life of the city and 
the Court. 

“ Paul — it is you, then? ” 

Feodor — my friend! ” 

“ You have been waiting here? ” 

“ A century! ” 

“The devil! It is that rogue Demetrius 
again. You are hungry; tais toi, we shall 
lunch and talk afterward. I have a thousand 
things to say; you have a thousand things to 
tell. I become a boy again at the sight of 
you! ” 

He talked, indeed, with a boy’s enthusi- 


THE UNFORESEEN. 


309 


asm, but said nothing of that great and en- 
grossing subject which Paul desired so ear- 
nestly to broach. For the moment they 
might have been students together — students 
enjoying such a rare day of fortune that they 
ate the dishes of princes and washed them 
down with the wine of kings. Paul won- 
dered, in the moments of silence, if he had, in 
truth, branded himself as an outcast and a 
traitor. For if that charge were true, how 
. came it that he ate and drank with Feodor 
Talvi and was called brother by him? He 
could not believe in such good fortune. “ He 
does not know,” he thought; ‘‘he will not 
call me brother when I tell him.” 

The dishes were many before luncheon 
was done; champagne foamed in long Vene- 
tian glasses; the dainty manner of the service 
was beyond question. When the cloth had 
been cleared, Demetrius carried cigars and 
liquors to a little bower of palms in the con- 
servatory. Paul found himself reclining in- 
dolently upon a sofa, while the Count curled 
himself up in a basket armchair which Sleep 
■herself might have designed. For the first 


310 


KRONSTADT. 


time since they had met, an embarrassing in- 
terlude of silence gave the men opportunity 
for recollection. Paul made up his mind that 
this was the time to speak; but before he 
could open his lips Feodor asked him a ques- 
tion. 

“ The young English lady — is she well? ” 

The question was astonishing, bewilder- 
ing. Paul opened his eyes very wide, for he 
thought it was a jest. 

“ Oh, she is very well,” he stammered; 
“ that is to say — you know about her? ” 

The Count answered sympathetically — 

“ I know your story, Paul, my friend; I 
read it in a despatch four days after you left 
Kronstadt.” 

Paul took heart. 

‘‘ If you know my story, you know also 
that I am no traitor to Russia; you know 
that I am here in London to guard her 
secrets.” 

“ Exactly, or how could I receive you at 
my house? It was all clear to me from the 
first. A pretty face, a clever little head, a 
bribe from the English Government; my old 


THE UNFORESEEN. 


31I 

friend falls in love with the pretty face, and 
persuades the woman to deliver up to him 
all the plans she has stolen. He comes here 
to give me those plans, and to tell me that 
the woman may go to the devil, while he goes 
back to Russia.” 

The smile left Paul’s boyish face. He 
stood up awkwardly against the mentelshelf. 

“ You do not understand,” he said grave- 
ly. It is not that. Count; there are no 
maps to be given up. Marian has none. I 
am convinced of it. When I left Russia it 
was to make sure that she did not see any of 
her friends — that she did not betray us. It 
is true that her father and mother died some 
years ago; but she has relations in London 
— rthe Englishman who tempted her. I did 
not wish her to meet those people. Judge 
me as you will for what is past, I have this 
to say, that, by God’s help, I will never leave 
her side again! ” 

Feodor, no longer the diplomatist, but the 
man of the world, laughed good-humouredly. 

“ Oh,” he said, we are still in that stage, 
then. It is the second stage, I think. When 


312 


KRONSTADT. 


I was the bel ami of ‘ La Superbe ’ in Paris, I 
took a course. You begin with a bad appe- 
tite and end by buying a pistol. Convales- 
cence dates from the moment when you pre- 
sent your pistol to your brother at School 
and go out to dine at Voisin’s. Complete re- 
covery is to hear with equanimity that she, 
for whom you would have died a thousand 
deaths, has married the leader of the orches- 
tra. Possibly, in your case, if you had stayed 
in Russia, you would have been well by this 
time; but a change of air fosters these com- 
plaints. A month, even two months, may be 
necessary now. And pity is a factor. Send 
the girl back to her relations, since you know 
that she has brought no luggage with her, 
and enjoy London for a month. I can rec- 
ommend nothing better.” 

Paul took up his cigar and lit it. His 
hand trembled undisguisedly. The love 
creed, chanted by the man of the world, was 
the thing he had ever despised. He knew 
well the impossibility of convincing this dandy 
of a dozen cities of the reality of his love or 
of the nature of it. He would not try, he 


THE UNFORESEEN. 


313 

thought; he feared that mockery might cast 
a false light on the name so dear to him. 

‘‘ Do not let us speak of Marian,” he said 
after a moment of silence; “you do not un- 
derstand me, and I do not understand you. 
No man has a right to say to another, you 
shall love here or there. If you are my friend, 
you will help me at home. You must tell me 
what they are saying there. God knows, I 
dare not ask myself that question. Have I 
any longer a name in Russia? Is there any 
friend of mine to speak a word for me? 
These are the questions I ask myself while I 
lie awake at night and remember Kronstadt. 
The night is punishment enough — believe me, 
Feodor.” 

The Count, who disliked emotion of 
any kind, looked foolishly at the fire of his 
cigar. 

“ My dear fellow,” he exclaimed in the 
tone of the candid friend, “ it is no good ex- 
citing yourself. And it would be absurd to 
tell you any lies. How can I know what 
they are saying now at Petersburg. Am I 

likely to find the expression of any sympathy 
21 


314 


KRONSTADT. 


in official documents? When a man runs 
away from his regiment without leave, and 
takes with him a young lady who has been oc- 
cupied for a month or more in stealing the 
plans of his fortress, he must expect his friends 
to open their eyes. How could it be other- 
wise? We judge men by their deeds. As the 
thing stands, you, in the eyes of the authori- 
ties, share the woman’s guilt; we, who are 
your well-wishers, cannot stoop to help you 
with the expression of false hopes. That you 
will ever return to Kronstadt I do not believe. 
The thing is out of the question. Discipline 
would suffer and you would suffer. But I 
will not say that influence at Petersburg 
might not, at some distant day, restore you 
to the Emperor’s service. It depends upon 
yourself and upon the course you take here in 
London. You will not expect us to join with 
any enthusiasm in a scheme for your benefit 
as long as you utter this ridiculous nonsense 
about marrying the Englishwoman and con- 
stituting yourself her protector. Oh, my 
dear Paul, do you not see that she is the 
soubrette of your opera, and that her tears 


THE UNFORESEEN. 


315 


are shed only while the curtain is up? By- 
and-bye she will be supping with the leading 
tenor, while you are back in your own coun- 
try and are ready to thank Bleaven that you 
have done with her.” 

Paul bit his lip. He was within an ace 
of losing his temper and of quitting the 
house. 

“ It is a lie! ” he said doggedly; ‘‘ there is 
no better woman breathing. If you knew 
her, Feodor — if you were my friend, you 
would not say these things. I came here 
thinking that you would help me; I am sorry 
now that I came.” 

The Count sank deeper into the cushions 
of his chair. 

“ Du calme! Du calme! ” he cried, with 
the air of one who is much amused. “ We 
are at the third stage now, and these are the 
symptoms. While I knew La Superbe, I had 
not a friend in Paris. There was not a man 
whose throat I did not wish to cut.* See, 
mon ami, how these diseases resemble each 
other. As I live, you will fight me before 
dinner-time! ” 


3i6 


KRONSTADT. 


No, indeed,” replied Paul very quietly; 

I cannot quarrel with you. Count. If your 
creed of life is not mine, I do not complain of 
that. We will talk of it no more, for I am 
going home. It was a promise to her. She 
will be waiting. I said that I would be away 
an hour, and three have passed.” 

A shadow of anxiety crossed the Count’s 
face. 

‘‘ Oh, you must not talk about going,” he 
exclaimed earnestly, ‘^and you must not think 
me unfriendly. What has passed is nothing. 
We will talk of serious things presently, and 
you shall meet one better able to advise you 
than the mere diplomatist who sees every- 
thing through the glass of office. If you 
think that mademoiselle will be anxious, write 
a little letter and the man will take it. You 
will find pens and ink in the library on the 
next floor. I am going to smoke here until 
you return. It would be folly to go away 
now, ^t the beginning of it.” 

Paul stood irresolute, but the Count 
touched a gong at his side, and the Russian 
appeared once more. 


THE UNFORESEEN. 


317 


“ Demetrius, show the way to the library. 
His Excellency will give you a letter; see that 
it is delivered at once.” 

The library was a small room furnished 
prettily, with many books chiefly in French. 
Paul wrote his letter quickly — a letter of love 
and hope. He had met Feodor; the Count 
was his friend still; he was waiting for an- 
other to help him to some position of honour 
and emolument — all this he honestly believed 
as he wrote it. Never for a moment did it 
dawn upon him that he was the victim of a 
trick. He was convinced that the note would 
be delivered at once. He did not know that 
Demetrius would carry it so far as the kitchen 
of the house and there burn it in the stove. 
When he returned to the conservatory a 
smile of content was upon his face. It was 
good to have found a friend again. He de- 
termined to show a greater gratitude to the 
Count; but the words he wanted would not 
come to his lips. Nor was the reason far to 
seek. When he descended the stairs, whom 
should he see with Feodor but old Bonzo 
himself — the Bonzo of Kronstadt; the Bonzo 


3i8 KRONSTADT. 

whose name had struck terror into his heart 
so often; the Man of Iron whom all feared. 

The Colonel sat upon a basket sofa. He 
wore a black frock coat with flowing skirts; 
his trousers were gray; his tie was a tremen- 
dous bow in the French fashion, neglige and 
ample. He smoked a black cigar and sipped 
a glass of absinth. When he saw Paul, con- 
fused and hesitating, upon the threshold of 
the conservatory, his little eyes twinkled mer- 
rily, and he held out a great paw, as though 
to give the younger man confidence. 

“ Le voici! ” he exclaimed boisterouslv, 
‘He voici! the renegade, the traitor, who has 
brought me all the way from Petersburg! ” 
Paul shook the outstretched hand timidly. 
The room seemed to dance before his eyes. 

“You here, my Colonel — you?” he re- 
peated, with broken words. “ You have 
come to London to see me? ” 

“ If I have come to London to see you! 
Do I make the Cook’s tour then? Am I here 
to visit the Westminster Abbey — have I the 
tourist’s suit? Look at me — Bonzo — and 
ask why I come? ” 


THE UNFORESEEN. 


319 


He put the question in a voice of thunder 
— the voice Paul had heard so often on the 
ramparts of Kronstadt. But the note of jest 
mingled with a deeper chord, and the two 
who listened to him laughed when he 
laughed. 

‘‘ I should not call it a tourist’s suit,” said 
the Count, surveying the tremendous propor- 
tions of Bonzo’s coat; ‘‘there is too much 
cloth in it. They don’t make a fortune out 
of you. Colonel — those tailors.” 

Bonzo nodded his head approvingly. He 
was a stranger to civilian dress, and his new 
appearance amused him. 

“Behold!” he said, “it is a coat for 
my son and for my son’s son. I have 
worn it twice in fourteen years. It is 
only a barbarous people that would 
wear a coat like this. Sit down, my friend 
Paul, and see how I degrade myself for 
you.” 

He thrust a low chair forward, and Paul 
sat down, hoping he knew not what, afraid 
to ask why the Man of Iron had followed 
him to the land of exile. 


320 


KRONSTADT. 


You are well, my Colonel? You had a 
good passage? ” 

I am very well, my son.” 

You stay in London long? ” 

Until I hear that a foolish young man 
has come to his senses again.” 

Paul flushed. There came upon him irre- 
sistibly the impulse to appeal to this strong 
man’s pity. 

“ Oh,” he said, you do not think me 
guilty. Colonel? You do not believe that I 
am a traitor to my country? ” 

“ Du tout, du tout, my son; you are no 
traitor — you have not the brains.” 

Paul stopped as though one had shot 
him. The eloquence of pity, which had in- 
spired him in thought, deserted him at the 
first word of that ironical response. As well 
ask mercy of the tomb as of the Man of Iron. 

“ It was not a question of brains! ” he 
blurted out presently. “ I am not clever, my 
Colonel, I know that, but .1 am no traitor to 
Russia.” 

Pah! ” said old Bonzo, a little severelv: 
traitors do not run of¥ with chorus-girls and 


THE UNFORESEEN. 


321 


then say they could not help it. You are 
a fool, my son; you have not the wisdom of 
the boy! What, when you had the woman 
in Alexander, when she was alone with you, 
when you could have made love to her all 
day, you bring her back here to her friends, 
you cut yourself off from those who love you, 
and then say that you did it for us! Oh, it 
is a story for a fairy-book.” 

Bonzo spoke with a strong man’s con- 
tempt for the folly of the child. Paul shud- 
dered at his words. The horrible suggestion 
— for he knew well what the other meant — 
fired his blood. He could have struck the 
speaker on the mouth. 

“ Colonel,” he asked in a low voice, “ you 
knew Mademoiselle at Kronstadt, and yet 
you are ready to say these things of her? ” 

“ Certainly I am ready. W ould you have 
me cry that she is of noble birth? Shall I 
raise my hat when I mention the name of 
Stefanovitch’s governess, the daughter of an 
English hatushka, a village priest at fifteen 
hundred roubles a year? What, a woman 
who played with you as I play with this leaf; 


322 


KRONSTADT. 


who brings you to England to draw for her 
the maps which she had not time to draw 
when she was with us; who will laugh in your 
face presently and tell you to go to the devil 
— is this the one that Tolma’s heir would 
marry? Pah! I have not the patience to 
speak of it! ” 

Paul picked up a cigarette and began to 
roll it in his fingers. He was unable to an- 
swer such an argument. Bonzo, he made 
sure, would never understand him; the hopes 
he had placed in his friends were shattered at 
last; they did not know Marian; they would 
never know her. He was still searching for 
his reply to the accusation when the Colonel 
spoke again, but with less heat. 

“A la bonne heure! ” he said, ‘‘ I am not 
here to scold you. We will say good-bye to 
this day of folly, for it is done. To-morrow 
you will leave London for Paris, my son. It 
will be the beginning of your journey to Vi- 
enna, where you will stay until this madness 
is forgotten. After that we shall appeal to 
the Emperor. Plis clemency may find for you 
some duty in the East. If you have suffered. 


THE UNFORESEEN. 


323 


those who love you have suffered too. Even 
I — Bonzo — could I hear of this, and forget 
that, of all at Kronstadt, you alone were a 
son to me? You shall be a son to me once 
more — when you have left England.” 

Paul stood up as the speaker continued. 
An undefined dread of some calamity about 
to overtake him prompted him to speak. 

Colonel,” he said, I cannot go to Paris 
with you to-morrow. I cannot leave Eng- 
land. Mademoiselle is waiting for me now. 
I thank you with all my heart for your prom- 
ises, but the day for them is past. I think of 
Russia no more. I shall find a home here. 
Some day you will understand me.” 

Bonzo waved his hand dramatically. 

“ Sit — sit,” he said; “ this is not a theatre. 
Captain Paul. You are in Russia here. This 
house is our house. It is the EmperoPs 
house. Your English friends may come, but 
we shall not let them in. Be reasonable, and 
make up your mind that mademoiselle must 
wait a little longer.” 

Paul looked from one to the other with 
dazed eyes. Count Eeodor had risen, and 


324 


KRONSTADT. 


stood with his back toward the window; the 
Colonel’s face was not to be read. 

“ I do not understand! ” he exclaimed ex- 
citedly. You would not keep me here 
against my wish, Colonel? ” 

Bonzo laughed ironically. 

“ For a few days,” he said, with a gesture 
of indifference, until you come to your 
senses. Captain. Meanwhile, if mademoiselle 
is waiting, send another little note.” 

In that moment the truth flashed upon 
Paul. He stepped backward as though seek- 
ing a way of escape; there was the look of a 
hunted animal in his eyes when he turned to 
the master of the house. 

“ My God! ” he cried, you would not do 
this. Count! You have no right to do it. I 
must go back to my house. I tell you that 
she is waiting for me.” 

Bonzo answered him by striking a gong 
at his side. 

My son,” he said sternly, “ she will wait 
many days yet. It is the duty of your friends 
to save you from yourself.” 

The deep note of the gong echoed 







Silently they fell upon the fugitive 


THE UNFORESEEN. 


325 


through the silent rooms of the house like an 
alarm. The three men — for all had risen — 
stood facing each other. They knew that the 
time for words had past. As for Bonzo, he 
had ceased to smile; anger and determination 
'were to be read in his eyes. He looked 
around him with the air of one who has 
planned everything, and whose plan is to be 
put into execution. 

You are mad, Captain Zassulic, and we 
shall cure you,” he repeated triumphantly. 
“ To-morrow we set out, but not for Vienna. 
The fortress of St. Peter shall be your hos- 
pital. Fool that you were to pit your wits 
against mine.” 

He raised his hand to point threateningly, 
and, as if in instant answer to the signal, the 
conservatory was filled with troopers in the 
uniform of the Russian service. Silently, de- 
terminedly, with great strength, they fell 
upon the fugitive and threw him to the 
ground. So sudden was the attack, so swift 
had been the sequence of word and of event, 
that Paul was a prisoner in their arms even 
while the thought of escape was shaping in 


326 KRONSTADT. 

his mind. For a moment he struck at them 
with the strength of ten men. Agony and 
despair gave him courage. The whole bit- 
terness of life seemed to be his portion. 

'‘Marian!” he cried. "O my God, let 
me go to her — you kill me — I suffocate — let 
me go to her — let me go ” 

A strong arm, the arm of a giant, stifled 
the broken cries. The whole landing seemed 
to be full of men. Though the captive struck 
right and left, clutching at this object and 
that, they carried him swiftly from the place 
up and still up to the prison of the garrets. 
He beheld other landings and the interiors 
of bedrooms poorly furnished, the stairs were 
stairs of marble no longer, the light of the 
fuller day fell upon his face through a frosted 
dome of glass. When they flung him down 
at last, with blood upon his hands, and torn 
clothes, the light was shut swiftly from his eyes. 
He lay in utter darkness, and he thought it 
the darkness of hell. For he knew that the un- 
pitying hand of the Russian had fallen upon 
him even in England, the England for which 
she whom he loved had longed so earnestly. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


TOWARD THE LIGHT. 

Marian awoke from a troubled sleep 
when the clock of St. Martin’s Church was 
striking a quarter past four of the morning. 
She had not meant to sleep at all, but weak- 
ness prevailed above her misery, and for an 
hour she was carried in her dreams back to 
Alexander and to the nameless horror of her 
cell below the sea. 

When she awoke she was still sitting in 
her low chair by the window, but the cold of 
dawn had stiffened her limbs, and the burden 
of the night and its weariness lay heavy upon 
her heart. Nor could she bring her mind at 
the first to remember why she was not in her 
bed, or how it came to be that she looked 
down upon the silent streets at such an hour. 

When memory helped her, it was swift and 

327 


328 


KRONSTADT. 


terrible. She rose to her feet and opened the 
door of their little sitting-room. Had Paul 
come back to her? she asked herself. Why 
did he wait? What new ill had overtaken 
him? God, if he should be dead! 

A tortured, helpless woman, worn with 
suffering and doubt, she crept along the 
darkened passage until she stood at his bed- 
room door. It was wide open. She could 
see the bed, but no one had slept in it. Scat- 
tered here and there were the few things he 
had purchased since they had been in Lon- 
don — a pair of slippers, a little dressing-case, 
a writing-desk. A bunch of violets he had 
worn when shopping for her two days ago 
stood on his washhand-stand. She took it up 
and kissed the faded flowers; she knelt at his 
bedside and prayed, a woman’s prayer, that 
the day might bring him back to her. 

It was strange, at this time, how her sense 
of dependence upon the man was magnified 
and made real to her. A year ago the truth 
that she stood alone in the world would have 
been a matter of indifference to her. But 
that day had passed. While she had no ex- 


TOWARD THE LIGHT. 


329 


aggerated notions of Paul’s cleverness, while 
she knew him, heart and mind, he remained 
the idol of her dreams and of her love. She 
had trembled when he held her in his arms. 
Her first waking thought had been for him; 
she had won sleep often with his name upon 
her lips. The past years of loneliness, of 
struggle, of poverty, seemed removed by 
ages from her present life. If there had come 
to her sometimes the reflection that this 
whirl of events was unreal and false, that she 
was deceiving herself, that the reckoning 
must be paid, she brushed the thought aside. 
She was a woman, and she had learned to 
love. 

The house was quiet with the stillness of 
the hour before the dawn. Without, the steely 
gray light fell upon shuttered windows and 
silent streets. Even great London nodded 
The gaudy ornament of gold and garish 
painting had become subdued and shabby; 
immense buildings loomed up as though the 
sun had shaped them from the mists. Save 
for the passing carts, of the rumble of a 
wagon on its way to market, or the fleeting 


330 


KRONSTADT. 


figure of some ragged and homeless creature 
awake once more to the hopeless life of thou- 
sands, she might have looked down upon a 
city of the dead. Those who had passed and 
repassed while the sun shone — whither had 
they gone to sleep? What change of fortune 
had they known since yesterday? Who 
among them would rejoice with the day? 
How many would know the day no more? 
The very emptiness of the city awed her. 
She was afraid of the stillness. Not one in 
all those millions would stand at her side to 
help her. She remembered the child, and 
thought of him sleeping in a house of sun- 
shine and of flowers, but the remembrance 
was bitter, for her courage was broken. The 
old way of life was closed for ever. She 
would go hand in hand with little Dick, but 
there would be tears upon her face. 

Seven o’clock struck, and the sun shone 
upon the city. People flocked to the great 
railway stations; cabs began to loiter by the 
pavements; she heard the scream of whistles 
and the cry of the newsboys. It was a relief 
to her, this surging of the stream of life. She 


TOWARD THE LIGHT. 


331 


began to reckon with herself as she had not 
reckoned since she left Kronstadt. If Paul 
did not return during the morning, she re- 
solved that she would go to Scotland Yard 
and tell his story, in so far as it could be told 
without the surrender of her promise. A 
woman of clear and quick thought, she 
scouted the trivial suggestions which desire 
to deceive herself had prompted. Taking 
new courage of the morning, she refused to 
believe that her lover was dead or that an 
accident had overtaken him. An echo of 
the truth dinned in her ears. ‘‘ It is the hand 
of his own countrymen,” she thought; “he 
has been lured from here by a trick.” And 
then she remembered that these things were 
not to be done in England. A glad pride 
in the might of her own country quickened 
her heart. “I will save him!” she said; 
“ I will go to them and learn the whole 
story.” 

Her course would have been easier if she 
had known Paubs intentions when he left 
her. It was in her mind that he had gone to 
the Russian Embassy; she remembered that 


332 


KRONSTADT. 


he spoke of South Audley Street, but could 
not recall the number of the house. 

She said that she would get her breakfast 
and go afterward to the Embassy in quest of 
news. If none was to be had there, it would 
be time to consult with the people at Scot- 
land Yard. True, she had given Paul her 
word that she would not go out alone; but 
the promise was made for a set of circum- 
stances other than these. His liberty, his 
very life, might depend upon her breaking 
that promise. A great desire to be up and 
away at once took possession of her. It was 
hers now to play the strong part. Neverthe- 
less, the hope that she might hear his step 
on the stair before the clock struck again 
held her to the place. 

“ He has stayed at the Count’s house all 
night,” she argued childishly; “ it was neces- 
sary, and he is among friends.” 

At eight o’clock she dressed herself, wear- 
ing the pretty blouse that he had bought for 
her, and coiling up her wealth of brown hair 
picturesquely above her white face. She 
sighed often when she looked into the shabby 


TOWARD THE LIGHT. 


333 


glass, and asked herself how it came to be 
that a man had cast off country and friends 
for her sake. Very few in the world cared 
whether she lived or died. She did not won- 
der at that. Her life had been one long 
battle with circumstances; the smile her face 
had worn during the years of childhood was 
but the cloak which hid the scars of mental 
ill and oftentimes of defeat. Yet here was 
one to stand among the multitude and to say 
“ Thou art the woman.” The mystery of 
love baffled her. 

It was nine o’clock when she finished her 
cup of tea and found herself ready to go out. 
She had but a few shillings in her pocket; 
their little store of gold was locked in Paul’s 
trunk, yet she would not stop to reflect upon 
that new trouble which lack of money must 
bring to her presently. Glad in her way to 
escape the confinement of the stuffy room, re- 
joicing that her errand was for her lover’s 
sake, she descended the stairs with quick 
step. But at the street door she stood 
irresolute; and when she had looked 
about her an instant, she returned hastily 


334 


KRONSTADT. 


to her room, and went to the window to 
watch. 

A carriage drawn by a pair of magnificent 
grey horses was the secret of her irresolu- 
tion. It stood before her house at the mo- 
ment she would have begun her errand. She 
saw that the master of the carriage, a white- 
haired old man, slight and slim, but with the 
face of an aristocrat, was about to send the 
footman to her door. Instinct told her that 
here was one of Paul’s friends. While the 
footman waited in the street below, she had 
the impulse to run down, fearing that the car- 
riage would be driven away before she could 
tell Paul’s friend what had happened. She 
was still wavering when the slut of the house 
entered the room, holding in her dirty fingers 
the card of Prince Tolma. 

It ain’t for you; it’s for the gentle- 
ming,” she said, wiping a smut from her fore- 
head. I told ’em as he’d gawn out to sup- 
per and hadn’t come back yet.” 

Marian brushed her aside and ran down 
the stairs with the step of a schoolgirl. Care 
for her own dignity was forgotten. She ar- 


TOWARD THE LIGHT. 


335 

rived in the street breathless and with flushed 
cheeks. It was in her mind that this stran- 
ger would save her lover. 

“ Paul is not here,” she said excitedly; 
“ he left me yesterday to visit Count Talvi, 
and has not returned. I fear that something 
has happened. He would not leave me with- 
out a word. I am Marian Best, and I have 
heard your name so often. If I might speak 

to you for a little while ” 

She stood panting and expectant, while 
the old man regarded her with wondering 
eyes. Apparently the spectacle pleased him, 
for, of a sudden, he grunted like an animal 
and called to the footman. 

“ John, I am going to get out.” 

With great pomp and ceremony, after the 
unwrapping of rugs and laborious changes of 
posture, the Prince wormed himself from his 
seat. 

My dear,” he said apologetically, ‘‘ you 
must give me your hand. I am an old man 
— and your English wines do not love me. 
Is it far to mount? — there are many stairs? ” 
Marian blushed. 


336 


KRONSTADT. 


“We are not rich,” she said diffidently; 

“ we feared to go to an hotel ” 

“Du tout, du tout,” said the Prince; “we 
must find another apartment for you. The 
sun up there will scorch that pretty face. 
Ma foi, we go to heaven itself! ” 

A friendly banister and the strong arm of 
the footman dragged the burden to the 
heights. Marian followed with a sense of re- 
lief such as she had scarce known in all her 
life. It was as though a strong hand had 
been thrust out to her from the shadows of 
the great city. The tone, the gesture, the 
kindly eyes of this old man, the easy air of 
command and authority — these won upon 
her confidence. 

The Prince entered the shabby little room 
and waddled to an armchair. He sank in it 
with a pathetic sigh of gratitude. Drops of 
sweat stood upon his bald forehead. He 
mopped them up with a tremendous hand- 
kerchief; his breathing was stertorous and 
rapid. 

“ It is a vapour bath,” he exclaimed be- 
tween his gasps; “ you shall send for a sham- 


TOWARD THE LIGHT. 


337 


pooer, my dear. Or if you will not do that, 
you shall give me a little of The red wine I 
see upon the buffet there.’’ 

A flask of Australian wine stood upon the 
sideboard. Marian half filled a tumbler, and 
diluted the wine with soda-water. She had 
not noticed the poverty of her surroundings 
before. The coming of the aristocrat, his 
spotless clothes, his grand air, showed them 
in all their nakedness. 

“ I am sorry,” she said, moving about 
with girlish activity; “ I fear our stairs are 
dreadful. If it had not been that I knew you 
were Paul’s friend ” 

‘‘ Tut, tut,” replied the Prince, taking the 
tumbler in his hand; it is a recompense to 
see you in the room. There is no other or- 
nament necessary, my dear — your eyes and 
the sunshine. If I were a young man, I 
would come here every day to see you. We 
do not count the rungs of the ladder which 
leads up to Paradise.” 

He swelled with gallantry, remembering 
the days which had carried him, hungering 
for love to many a garret of old Paris. When 


338 


KRONSTADT. 


he had emptied his tumbler and put it down, 
he began to speak again, leaning forward 
heavily upon his gold-mounted cane and star- 
ing so hard at his little hostess that her 
cheeks flushed crimson. 

“ So you are Mademoiselle,” he said, nod- 
ding his head cunningly, “ and you have 
brought my boy to England, and it is for you 
that he has forsaken his friends and turned 
his back upon his country. Well, my dear, 
I should begin by scolding you. I meant to 
scold you when I came here. But I am help- 
less, you see — so come and sit by me and we 
will talk a little while.” 

He pointed to a little stool, and she 
obeyed him, sitting almost at his feet. Never 
in her life had she met one whom she would 
have trusted so implicitly. Her own father 
— long dead — the man of dusty books and 
monotoned sermons, had awakened in her 
but pity. The fine face of this noble Russian, 
his soft and winning voice, his kindly gesture, 
inspired her to ask herself what her own life 
would have been if such a man had brought 
her into the world. 


TOWARD THE LIGHT. 


339 


“ You are very kind to me,” she said sim- 
ply; “ it is a long time since I have found a 
friend. I think sometimes that I shall never 
find another. I cannot call Paul my friend; 
he is more than that. But then, he has left 
me here ” 

Her cheeks reddened and she paused. 
Tolma patted her arm encouragingly. 

“ Do not be afraid to speak to me,” he 
said. “ I know your story, but it comes 
prettily from these pretty lips. You do not 
call Paul your friend; he is more than that. 
Ma foi, I would disown him if he were not! ” 

‘‘ I love him,” she answered, taking cour- 
age of herself; “ whatever he may do here, I 
could not blame him. He has given up 
everything for me — God knows how much I 
regret it if it is not for his good. Yet how 
can a woman answer such a question? How 
is she to read the depths of a man's love? 
If you and his friends wish him to leave me, 
if you think it is in his interest to do so, I 
have no right to stand between you. It 
would be happiness to know that he is 
happy.” 


340 


KRONSTADT. 


Tolma moved restlessly in his chair. He 
had come to carry his heir from the trap into 
which he believed that he had fallen. He 
had come to convince Paul that the woman 
was a charlatan, an impostor, the tool of the 
English Government. When he hastened 
back from Paris, it had seemed to him that 
his mission was the easiest in the world. He 
flattered himself that no man knew women 
as he knew them. He thought that he would 
find his nephew with some notorious servant 
of the spies of Europe — a chorus-girl, the 
wife of a chevalier d’industrie gone bankrupt, 
the partner of a baron snapping up uncon- 
sidered trifles. Ten words with her shattered 
that hypothesis. ‘‘ She is an English lady — 
she is honest,’’ he said to himself; ‘‘we shall 
have trouble.” 

“ You are a pair of children,” he ex- 
claimed, cutting Marian short in her protests; 
“ it is all a play to you — the ships and the 
armies of Russia are your toys. And yet, 
like your elders, you can think of the 
money.” 

She was silent at the rebuke. 


TOWARD THE LIGHT. 


341 


^^Yes,” he went on very seriously, “you 
can think of the money, children that you are. 
What you have done, mademoiselle, is a 
great crime toward my country. If I did not 
believe the story which Paul has told me, if 
I did not say that there are excuses which 
must suffice when a woman is the offender, 
nothing would keep me in this room even for 
an hour. But I am not like those others. I 
know men. I know women, vous savez. To 
me they are the pieces upon the board. I 
have seen so many put in the box; a few 
years more or less and destiny will have done 
with me. You are young, and your life is 
before you. I shall see that it is a pleasant 
life. You will live here in your England. Paul 
will go with me to be my companion in Paris. 
I like young faces; I am lonely in age. If 
it rested with me alone, I might make other 
promises for the future. But I must win a 
way for Paul to return to his country, and to 
return with honour. Do not think me harsh. 
I speak as the friend of you both. It cannot 
be otherwise: it is the only way.” 

Marian sat very still and white and silent. 


342 


KRONSTADT. 


1 

She thought herself in that instant to be 
abandoned of God and man. And yet she 
did not turn from the sacrifice. 

“ It is for Paul,” she cried bitterly. ‘‘ If 
there is no other way, let it be so, and God 
help us both! ” 

Tolma abhorred the spectacle of a woman 
distressed unless his were the hand to wipe 
away the tears. The fair, girlish figure at his 
side, so slight, so pitiful, created for him a 
boyhood to be lived again in an instant of 
thought. He drew Marian’s head upon his 
knee and stroked the curls through which the 
hardly checked tears glistened. 

“ My child,” he said gently, ‘‘ if an old 
man could work a miracle, assuredly it should 
be worked to-day. But what would you? 
If we wish Paul’s name again to be known in 
Russia, shall not we make this sacrifice glad- 
ly? While he is with you — when he is your 
husband — they will say, ‘ Ah, she loves him 
for what he is worth to her.’ They will de- 
clare that you have not all the maps you want 
to sell to your English Government, and that 
Paul will make them for you. By-and-bye 


TOWARD THE LIGHT. 


343 


you will laugh at him, and find another offi- 
cer of artillery and another Kronstadt. That 
is wTat they will say.” 

Marian smiled through her tears. 

“ Poor Paul,” she said; “ if he had to live 
by making maps of Kronstadt, we should 
starve. Prince.” 

Tolma looked at her searchingly. 

“ You do not think that he is clever? ” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, he is clever, but not in that 
w^ay. He would laugh if he could hear you. 
I do not believe he sleeps at night for think- 
ing that I should tell someone the things 
that I know. He came here at first to be 
quite sure that the memory he says I am 
cursed with should not do Kronstadt any 
harm. He feared that I would draw the 
maps.” 

“ The maps? But you have not got any 
maps; they were all burnt. He told me 
so.” 

He told you the truth; but you cannot 
burn the memory. I could draw Kronstadt 
now, this instant. I could place every fort 
and every gun. If I did not love Paul, my 


344 


KRONSTADT. 


drawings would make me a rich woman, 
Prince.” 

Tolma sat very still. He was debating 
quickly a hundred possibilities. The girl had 
struck every weapon from his hand. If her 
tale were true, she had struck every weapon 
from the hands of her enemies in London. 

“ It may be so,” he said, with the politest 
possible suggestion of doubt, ‘‘ it may be so, 
my child; but who will believe a story like 
that? ” 

“ I ask no one to believe it. Why should 
I? What have I to gain? ” 

She drew back from him, and, rising, 
went and stood by the window. The sun of 
morning flashed upon her white face and 
gave threads of gold to her tumbled hair. 
Tolma saw the child no more; a woman, self- 
reliant, proud, and beautiful, now answered 
him. 

What have I to gain? ” 

She repeated the question with just a 
soupgon of mockery in her tone. She did not 
forget that she was in England. The strong 
arm of her own country stood between her 


TOWARD THE LIGHT. 


345 


and the Russian. The man on his part was 
ready to appreciate the drama of the moment 
and to act up to it. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he said, struggling to 
his feet and posing threateningly, “ you have 
a husband to gain.” 

A husband! Oh, Prince, you jest.” 

The woman of Kronstadt spoke — the 
woman who had been willing, before love 
weakened her hand, to strike a blow at the 
Russian in his very holy of holies. 

“You jest. Prince,” she said again, with 
the air of a grand dame; “ what is more, you 
do not believe me.” 

Tolma answered her by banging the table 
with his cane. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, “ I jest so 
little that if you will prove your story I will 
make you Paul’s wife to-morrow.” 

It was her turn now to open her eyes in 
wonderment. But he continued without 
pause — 

“ Do you not see that they have taken 

him from you because they believe you want 

his secrets? Prove to them that the secrets 
23 


346 


KRONSTADT. 


are yours, not his, and they will move heaven 
and earth to shut your lips. A child would 
understand that. You are a free woman in 
your own country; who can prevent you 
speaking where you will? But the wife of 
Paul Zassulic — will she betray Russia! Ma 
foi, the boy’s eyes are better than ours now! 
He will cheat Bonzo yet and I shall be there 
to enjoy it. And he will be the husband of a ' 
clever woman, mademoiselle. Do not con- 
tradict me; I, Tolma, say it, and I am never 
wrong. You shall be my daughter. You 
shall live in Paris with me — when you have 
proved the story.” 

Lack of breath alone put a curb upon his 
eloquence. Marian listened to him as she 
would have listened to one who spoke of mir- 
acles. It had been upon her lips to tell him 
of her promise to Paul, her promise to keep 
the secrets to the day of her death; but love 
working in her heart silenced her. She could 
not shatter the cup raised so unexpectedly to 
her lips. 

I will prove my story when and where 
you will,” she said with dignity. “ Give me 


TOWARD THE LIGHT. 


347 

time to get pen and ink, and I will prove it 
now.” 

Tolma raised his hand. 

“ Not here,” he said, with a gesture of an 
actor; ‘‘ to-night, at the house of Count Feo- 
dor. My carriage shall fetch you. Fear 
nothing; you have the word of Tolma.” 

He waddled down the stairs, calling loud- 
ly for “ John.” Marian stood as one in a 
trance; but it was a trance of joy. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE WORD OF TOLMA. 

It was the evening of the day. Three 
men waited in the great drawing-room of 
Count Talvi’s house in South Audley Street. 

• 

The silver clock upon the mantelshelf had 
just struck nine. Its ticking was the only 
sound to be heard. 

Of the three who waited, Tolma alone 
sat at his ease. He lounged in a great chair 
and smoked Russian cigarettes incessantly. 
A glass of Chartreuse at his elbow went often 
to his lips. There was a complacent smile 
upon his face, the smile of a man who has 
played a great card and waits for his oppo- 
nents. He looked ever and anon at Bonzo, 
the second of the three, moving in and out of 
the shadows which the dim light of shaded 

candles cast in dark patches upon the heavy 
348 


THE WORD OF TOLMA. 


349 


carpet. But Bonzo was unconscious of the 
Prince’s gaze. His hands were linked be- 
hind his back. He did not smoke. He 
paced the room restlessly. If he had eyes for 
anything it was for a white sheet of paper 
spread out upon a writing-table in the alcove 
of the window. There his glance rested often 
as though some wonder would be wrought 
by an unseen hand. He feared that lines 
would appear upon the paper. 

Count Feodor, the third of the men, sat 
upon a sofa near the door. He had a Rus- 
sian newspaper in his hand, but he did not 
read it. His eyes turned often toward the 
silver clock. He seemed to be waiting for 
someone who should break the silence of the 
room. When, at five minutes past nine, a 
carriage was heard at the door below, he rose 
with a little sigh of relief. At the same mo- 
ment, Bonzo stood quite still and uttered an 
exclamation of satisfaction. 

“ Ha,” he said, '' they have come then.” 

You mean that she has come,” said Tol- 
ma, with a slight emphasis for the pronoun. 

I wait and see,” replied Bonzo diplo- 


KRONSTADT. 


350 

matically; ‘‘ I expect nothing, Prince, from a 
woman.” 

And yet you owe everything to one, my 
dear Colonel.” 

Bonzo resumed his sentry duty, but at 
the door he stopped suddenly. A lackey 
was there to announce a guest. 

“ Mademoiselle Best,” cried the fellow in 
a loud voice. 

Marian entered the room upon his heels. 

She wore a black French hat, becoming 
and unobtrusive. The cape, which Paul had 
bought for her, sat well upon her shoulders. 
Her gown was new and rich and in excellent 
taste. Tolma chuckled when he saw it, for 
he had caused it to be sent to her that very 
day. He said to himself that, gowned thus, 
this English girl might hold her own in any 
room in Europe. There was about her a 
dignity of presence, a sweet graciousness 
which no mere childish prettiness of face 
could rival. She seemed born to command. 
Nor did she betray the fear which had 
dogged her steps when she set out for the 
house of Feodor Talvi. She had been ready 


THE WORD OF TOLMA. 


351 

to take the word of Tolma, and he would an- 
swer for her safety. 

“Bravo! bravo!” he cried, struggling 
painfully to his feet; “ I said that you would 
come, mademoiselle. I told them that you 
would not be afraid.” 

“ Why should I be. Prince? ” she asked, 
with a pretty laugh. “ Am I not among 
friends? ” 

Again it was the old Marian who spoke, 
the Marian of carnival, the light of the Gov- 
ernor’s house. 

“ Certainly you are among friends,” re- 
peated the Prince, while he raised her hand 
to his lips with an Eastern courtesy; “ you 
have the word of Tolma.” 

“ And the knowledge that I am in Eng- 
land,” she said with simple pride. 

Bonzo laughed harshly. 

“ Mademoiselle prefers the English po- 
lice,” he cried with iron gaiety; “ assuredly 
she is among friends here.” 

Marian turned her great eyes upon him 
and looked him full in the face. 

“ Monsieur,” she said with a gaiety to 


352 


KRONSTADT. 


which she had long been a stranger, “ you 
have helped me to my preference.” 

“Arrivons!” exclaimed Tolma, ‘Ave are 
not here to write histories. What has been 
has been; let us forget it.” 

No woman could forget Colonel Bon- 
zo,” said Marian jestingly, with a laugh, “ at 
least, if she had shaken hands with him.” 

Bonzo’s great face flushed angrily, .but 
while he was still seeking a clever answer. 
Count Feodor slipped out of the shadows. 

“ Colonel,” he said, ‘‘ we forget the busi- 
ness upon which Mademoiselle Best has been 
good enough to come here to-night. Is it 
not time for that? ” 

Sans doute,” exclaimed Tolma. “ To 
the affairs. Why do we wait? Mademoi- 
selle is ready, I am sure.” 

Marian looked from one to the other 
with anxious eyes. Then she perceived 
the table upon which the white paper was 
spread. 

“ I am quite ready,” she said, though her 
heart began to beat quickly, “ when you tell 
me what you wish me to do.” 


THE WORD OF TOLMA. 


353 

Bonzo advanced to the table and set it 
straight. 

“ Mademoiselle/’ said he, “ we have been 
so long away from Russia that we forget our 
own country. You, they tell us, have a better 
memory. If you will make a little map upon 
that paper it is possible that you will have no 
cause to regret the trouble we shall put you 
to. It would be a map of Fort Constantine, 
mademoiselle.” 

He watched her as he spoke. She drew 
off her gloves with trembling fingers. The 
hour stood supreme among all the hours of 
her life. If she had forgotten! If her mem- 
ory failed her now! It was for Paul’s sake, 
she said to herself again and again. It was 
that she might be his wife. The lights 
danced before her eyes. The figures of the 
men were blurred to her sight. She lived 
in a room of shadows. The white paper 
seemed to spread out until it became a 
mighty scroll upon which her own doom 
or her own joy was to be written. “ God,” 
she prayed in her heart, help me, hear 


354 


KRONSTADT. 


“ A map of Fort Constantine? Oh, that 
is easy, Colonel! ” 

She sat at the table, guiding herself there- 
to with shaking fingers. Minutes passed and 
she could not find the pen. Tolma put it at 
last into her hand. 

Du courage,” he whispered; “it is for 
his liberty, his life. He is a prisoner in this 
house.” 

t 

She took the pen; her hand ceased to 
tremble. Quickly she drew the outline of 
the fort. The scratching upon the paper, 
the ticking of the silver clock, were the only 
sounds in the great drawing-room. Those 
who watched her breathed with an effort. 
The figure of the Man of Iron seen in the 
shadows was like a figure of bronze. 

Fifteen minutes passed. The woman had 
forgotten where she sat. She drew upon the 
paper with the skill of a trained draughts- 
man. She lived again under the shadow 
of the mighty fortress. Kronstadt arose 
above the sea of white waves. Line by 
line she conquered it; alone she went 
into the chamber of the secrets; the liv- 


I 


THE WORD OF TOLMA. 


355 

ing death came near but could not touch 
her. 

“ There is your map,” she said. 

The three were about her chair now. 
The paper was in Bonzo’s hands. He laid it 
side by side with another map and compared 
the two. For ten minutes no word escaped 
him. Then he drew himself up erect and de- 
livered his judgment. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he said, there are few 
in Russia who could draw a better map than 
that.” 

She did not answer him nor the others as 
they exclaimed upon the excellence of her 
handiwork. Rather she asked herself again 
if they had mocked her; had brought her to 
the house to charge these things against her. 
And while she stood, doubting and fearful 
she knew not of what, the folding doors 
which divided the great room from the 
smaller one behind it were thrown open by 
one of the servants, and she beheld a little 
room fitted up as a chapel, and an old priest 
standing before a shrine, upon which many 
candles were burning. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


THE EVENING OF THE SECOND DAY. 

Paul heard a clock strike eight, and re- 
membered that he had been nearly thirty 
hours a prisoner in Talvi’s house. It seemed 
to him that a century of hours had passed 
since he kissed Marian’s pretty lips and told 
her that he would return to her without de- 
lay. He was sure that he would never look 
upon her face again; that he would live his 
life alone in dishonour and in exile. The 
lamp which they had set in his room wound- 
ed his eyes with its garish light. He wished 
for darkness that he might accustom himself 
to the thought of unending captivity. He 
did not believe that any power on earth could 
snatch him from the relentless hand of his 
own countryman which had in treachery 

struck him down. They would send him to 
356 


THE EVENING OF THE SECOND DAY. 357 

the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. She, 
whom he loved to call his little wife, would 
look for him and look in vain. He dared 
not ask himself how she would face the world 
alone. Self-reproach would endure while life 
was: the unanswered question would remain 
the surpassing punishment of his folly. 

The room in which they had locked him 
was one of the garrets of the house. A dor- 
mer window stood out upon a sloping roof, 
high above the surrounding roofs. But the 
window was boarded up, and iron bars, newly 
fixed, forbade any hope of it. He saw that 
Talvi had foreseen the need of such a room 
when he sent the telegram. They had made 
up their minds to get the spy out of Eng- 
land at any cost; friendship would count for 
nothing with a Russian who believed that he 
was serving his country. Even if Marian 
went to her English friends and told them 
her story, he doubted that those friends could 
help him. False charges would be made; 
his extradition would be demanded by a Gov- 
ernment powerful to enforce its wishes. 
They would brand him as a criminal and 


358 


KRONSTADT. 


carry him back to the unnameable horrors of 
the fortress of the Neva. And Marian — he 
clenched his hands when he remembered her. 
She would be standing at the window wait- 
ing for him. He pictured her to himself — 
the wan face, the great thoughtful eyes, the 
quick girlish movements, the gestures he had 
loved, the gold-brown hair, the winning 
voice. He would hear that voice no more. 
It must be to him but a memory through 
eternity. The way of pilgrimage was before 
him still; but the hand which had been 
locked in his would never touch his own 
again. 

There was a little furniture in the room, a 
basket chair, a shelf of books, a mahogany 
table, a camp bedstead. He had been there 
but a very short time when the Russian serv- 
ant brought a lamp to permit him to see 
these things. He did not speak to the man 
nor question him, for he knew well how little 
that would help him. When the servant was 
gone, he resented the light which had been 
left. The gable of the roof was dark and 
ominous above him. He moved in ghostly 


THE EVENING OF THE SECOND DAY. 359 

shadows, for they had robbed him even of 
the day. So still was the place that he could 
hear a clock ticking in the room below. No 
sound came up from the distant street. The 
roar of the city’s life was as a falling of great 
waters heard afar. 

It was near to five o’clock' of the after- 
noon then, he remembered. Marian must 
have begun to ask herself what mischance 
had overtaken him. Rightly, he could hope 
nothing from the friendship of a helpless girl; 
and yet there were moments when he hoped 
much. She would tell the English police 
that he had gone to Talvi’s house. The po- 
lice would begin to ask questions. It was 
possible that the whole of his story would be 
made known, and then — and then! He 
dreamed even of liberty won by her. She. 
would not rest day or night in her quest of 
the truth. She might save him even yet 
from the hand of the Russian. 

The weary night dragged on, but the man 
neither slept nor ate. The supper they had 
put upon his table reminded him of the short 
days of content he had known in London. 


360 


KRONSTADT. 


What a gift of the joy of life it had been to 
sit by her side all day, to hear her morning 
words of greeting, her pretty good-night, to 
hold her in his arms, and to say that therein 
was the place of his abiding rest! But for 
the thought that in some way — he knew not 
how — a miracle would bring her to his side, 
even in that house of darkness, he would have 
lost his reason. The impulse to beat upon 
the door of his prison, to cry aloud for mercy, 
was scarce to be controlled. The hope that 
she might yet come alone empowered him 
to play the man. He listened for her foot- 
step through the long watches of the terrible 
night, and laughed at himself for the fancy. 
At dawn he fell asleep, and sleeping, he 
dreamed that her arms were about his neck. 

It was a quarter past nine o’clock on the 
evening of the second day before any mes- 
sage came to him from the outer world. He 
had eaten a little dinner, and was asking him- 
self all the old questions when a sound upon 
the stair without brought him quickly to his 
feet, and he stood with heart a-quiver, won- 
dering who came. For a spell, brought down 


V 


THE EVENING OF THE SECOND DAY. 361 

to earth suddenly from the giddy clouds of 
dreamland, the thought lingered that it 
might be Marian’s step. He was still laugh- 
ing at himself for so foolish a notion when 
the door swung back upon its hinges, and 
Count Feodor stood before him. 

The Count was in plain evening dress; 
his face was flushed, for he had run up the 
stairs; he was boisterous as a lad who carries 
good news. He had regretted, with a 
friend’s regret, the indignity put upon Paul 
by those whom he served. He was glad with 
a friend’s joy that those indignities were soon 
to be forgotten. 

‘‘ Paul, mon vieux, c’est fini,” he gasped, 
while he held out both his hands to the pris- 
oner, “ you are to remain here no longer; 
they have discovered their mistake, they 
know all; they have sent for her — she is 
here! ” 

Paul staggered like a drunken man. 

“She is here? Oh, my God!” 

“ It is Tolma’s work,” continued the 

Count, with a child’s pride of his words. 

“ He discovered that she could make the 
24 


362 


KRONSTADT. 


maps. He is downstairs with her now. You 
are to go there. They want you — at once.” 

They want me at once? ” repeated the 
dazed man. “ But look at me — my face, my 
hands, my beard.” 

‘‘ Ivan shall see to that; he will not be 
ten minutes. There is no time ” 

Paul stood quite still. He seemed to 
read in that instant the moment of Talvi’s 
words. 

For what should there be time? ” he 
asked very quietly. 

‘‘ For the priest to marry you to the little 
lady who knows so much about Kronstadt.” 

Paul reeled out into the light. He was 
sobbing like a child. 







Before the altar 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


AT MIDNIGHT. 

A CANDELABRUM Set before the altar in 
the chapel of Count Talvi’s house cast a soft 
light upon the face of the old priest and upon 
the little group around him. Huge and un- 
wieldy, like some broken pillar, was the fig- 
ure of Bonzo back in the shadows. But 
the Man of Iron thought and planned no 
longer. The difficult emprise which had 
carried him to England was accomplished. 
Eor the aftermath he cared nought. Kron- 
stadt had lost a good soldier, but her secrets 
were safe. The clever little woman, who 
knelt before the altar with the light of love 
awakened in her eyes, would betray the cita- 
del no more. Everything else was indiffer- 
ent to the servant of the Gate. Love was 

363 


364 KRONSTADT. 

the recreation of children. He had never 
loved. 

Near to the Man of Iron sat old Tolma. 
There was upon his face a look of sly triumph 
and of elation. He had crossed swords with 
Bonzo of Kronstadt and had defeated him. 
The pretty English girl would bring sunshine 
into his house in Paris. Paul should become 
a son to him in deed and act. This strange 
marriage, at night in a house of Western 
London, appealed to an insatiable appetite 
for romance. He recalled the faces of all 
the women to whom he would willingly have 
given himself under similar circumstances. 
What a roll-call it was! The subjects of 
his amours would have numbered a bat- 
talion. 

The remaining witness to this strangest of 
strange marriages was the master of the 
house. Count Talvi showed how much his 
old friend’s happiness meant to him. He 
came often to Paul’s side; he whispered 
words of congratulation to him. Hither and 
thither he moved with silent step, now to 
help the priest, now to give orders to the 


AT MIDNIGHT. 365 

lackeys. He was a servant of Russia still, 
but this was his holiday. 

The priest raised his hands to bless those 
whom God had joined together in the holy 
mystery of marriage. For one long moment 
Paul held his wife’s burning face close to 
his. Then all rose and passed to the great 
dining-room below. 

Here lights from many electric lamps 
shone upon Talvi’s guests. Lackeys were 
busy at the tabl'es laid for supper. It was 
the moment for congratulations. 

‘‘ You forgive me?” cried old Bonzo, hold- 
ing out both his hands to the trembling girl. 
‘‘ You forgive an old soldier for making you 
a Russian? ” 

Marian turned laughing eyes to his. 

“ I don’t know what I am or where I 
am,” she said bewilderedly ; “ I cannot be- 
lieve that any of you are real.” 

Bonzo laughed his great laugh, which 
filled the house with a tumultuous sound. 

“Fichtre!” he roared. “I — Bonzo — I 
am not real! Oh, c’est bien brole! Will you 
not kiss me, my child, and see if I am real? ” 


366 


KRONSTADT. 


Tolma, waddling laboriously, put his arms 
round the girl’s neck and kissed her on both 
cheeks. 

“ You must eat and drink, little girl,” he 
said; “you must remember that you are the 
daughter of Tolma. It is ten o’clock, and 
the train is at midnight.” 

“ The train? ” she asked wonderingly. 

“ Yes, the train to your Devonshire. It 
is there you will go until the house in Paris 
is prepared for you.” 

“ To little Dick,” she said, and the words 
were his reward. 

* • • • • • 

The mail rushed on toward the West. 
By sleeping villages, through silent towns, 
above dark swirling rivers, away to the gar- 
dens of England it carried the man and the 
woman who had suffered. But the day of 
suffering was forgotten already. 

In the corner of their carriage Paul held 
Marian in his strong arms. A rug was 
wrapped about them. The wan light of 
the feeble lamp fell dimly upon their happy 
faces. 


AT MIDNIGHT. 


367 


It is good to rest,” she said, as his arm 
closed about her and she laid her pretty head 
upon his shoulder. 

“ The rest shall be for ever,” he answered. 


THE END. 






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whose pulses still stir at the recital of deeds of high courage, we may recom- 
mend this book. . . . The chronicle conveys the emotion ol heroic adven- 
ture, and is picturesquely written.” — London Daily Aeivs. 

“It has literary merits all its own, of a deliberate and rather deep 
order. . . . In point of execution ‘ The Chronicles of Count Antonio ’ is the 
belt work that Mr. Hope has yet done. The design is clearer, the work- 
manship more elaborate, the style more colored.” — IDesiminsier Gazette, 

“A romance worthy of all the expectations rai.sed by the brilliancy of 
his former books, and likely to be read with a keen enjoyment and a 
healthy exaltation of the spirits by every one who takes it up.” — The 
Scotsman. 

“ A gallant tale, written with unfailing freshness and spirit.” — Lottdon 
Daily Telegraph. 

“One of the most fascinating romances written in English within many 
days. The quaint simplicity of its style is delightful, and the adventures 
recorded in these ‘ Chronicles of Count Antonio ' are as stirring and ingen- 
ious as any conceived even by Weyman at his best.” — New Tork World. 

“No adventures were ever better worth telling than those of Count 
Antonio. . . . The author knows full well how to make every pulse thrill, 
and how to hold his readers under the spell of his magic.” — Boston Herald. 



HE GOD IN THE CAR. New edition. Uniform 
with “The Chronicles of Count Antonio.” i2mo. Cloth, 


$1.25. 


“‘The God in the Car’ is just as clever, just as distinguished in style, 
just as full of wit, and of what nowadajcs some persons like better than wit 
— allusiveness — as any of his stories. It is saturated with the modern at- 
mosphere ; is not only a very clever but a very strong story ; in some 
respects, we think, the strongest Mr. Hope has yet written .” — Londoti 
Speaker, 

‘‘A very_ remarkable book, deserving of critical analysis impossible 
within our limit; brilliant, but not superficial; well considered, but not 
elaborated ; constructed with the proverbial art that conceals, but yet allows 
itself to be enjoyed by readers to whom fine literary method is a keen pleas- 
ure .” — Lojidon World. 

“The book is a brilliant one. . . . ‘The God in the Car’ is one of the 
most remarkable works in a year that has given us the handiwork of nearly 
all our best living novelists .” — London Standard. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


By S. R. CROCKETT. 

Uniform edition. Each, lamo, cloth, $1.50. 

J^ADS' LOVE. Illustrated. 

“ It seems to us that there is in this latest product much of the realism 
of personal experience. However modified and disguised, it is hardly pos- 
sible to think that the writer’s personality does not present itself in Saun- 
ders McQuhirr. . . . Rarely has the author drawn more truly from life than 
in the cases of Nance and ‘ the Hempie ’ ; never more typical Scotsman of 
the humble sort than the farmer Peter Chrystie .” — Londott AthencBum. 

“ A thoroughly delightful book. ... It is hearty, wholesome, full of 
pleasant light and dainty touches. It must be regarded as one of the best 
things that Crockett has written .” — Brooklyn Eagle. 


L^LEG KELL V, ARAB OF THE CITY. His Progress 
and Adventures. Illustrated. 

“ A masterpiece which Mark Twain himself has never rivaled. ... If 
there ever was an ideal character in fiction it is this heroic ragamuffin.” — 
London Daily Chronicle. 

“ In no one of his books does Mr. Crockett give us a brighter or more 
graphic picture of contemporary Scotch life than in ‘ Cleg Kelly.’ ... It 
is one of the great books .” — Boston Daily Advertiser. 


TDOG-MYRTLE AND PEAT. Third edition. 

“ Here are idyls, epics, dramas of human life, written in words that 
thrill and burn. . . . Each is a poem that has an immortal flavor. They 
are fragments of the author’s early dreams, too bright, too gorgeous, too 
full of the blood of rubies and the life of diamonds to be caught and held 
palpitating in expression’s grasp. - — Boston Courier, 

“ Hardly a sketch among them all that will not afford pleasure to the 
reader for its genial humor, artistic local coloring, and admirable portrayal 
of character .” — Boston Hotne yournal. 


n^HE LILAC SUNBONNET. Eighth edition. 

“A love story pure and simple, one of the old-fashioned, wholesome, 
.sunshiny kind, with a pure-minded, sound-hearted hero, and a heroine who 
is merely a good and beautiful woman i and if any other love story half so 
sweet has been written this year, it has escaped our notice.”— A^. V. Times. 

“ The general conception of the story, the motive of which is the growth 
of love between the young chief and heroine, is delineated with a sweetness 
and a freshness, a naturalness and a certainty, which places ‘ I he Lilac 
Sunbonnet ’ among the best stories of the —N e%v } ork Mail and 

Express. 

“ In its own line this little love story can hardly be excelled. It is a pas- 
toral an idyl— tbe story of love, courtship, and marriage of a fine young 
man ’and a lovely girl— no more ; but it is told in so thoroughly delightful a 
manner, with such playful humor, such delicate fancy, such true and sym- 
pathetic fec.ing, that nothing more could be —Boston Traveler. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SUCCESSOR TO “LOOKING BACKWARD." 


rr QUA LI TV. 

II.25. 


By Edward Bellamy. i2mo. 


Cloth, 


“ The book is so full of ide^s, so replete with suggestive aspects, so rich 
in quotable parts, as to form an arsenal of argument for apostles of the new 
democracy. . . . The humane and thoughtful reader will lay down 
‘ Equality’ and regard the world about him with a feeling akin to that with 
which the child of the tenement returns from his ‘ country week ’ to the foul 
smells, the discordant noises, the incessant strife of the wonted environ- 
ment. Immense changes aie undoubtedly in store for the coming century. 
The industrial transformations of the world for the past hundred years seem 
to assure for the next hundred a mutation in social conditions commen- 
suiately radical. The tendency is undoubtedly toward human unity, social 
solidarity. Science will more and more make social evolution a voluntary, 
self-directing process on the part of man.’’ — Sylvester Baxter, in the 
Review 0/ Reviews. 

“ ' Equality ’ is a greater book than ‘ Looking Backward,’ while it is 
more powerful; and the smoothness, the never-failing interest, the limpid 
clearness and the simplicity of the argument, and the timeliness, will make 
it extremely popula'-. Here is a book that every one will read and enjoy. 
Rant there is none, but the present system is subjected to a searching arraign- 
ment Withal, tlie story is bright, optimistic, and cheerful.” — Boston 
Herald. 

“ Mr. Bellamy has bided his time — the full nine years of Horace’s counsel. 
Calmly and quietly he has rounded out the vLion which occurred to him. . . . 
That Mr. Bellamy is earnest and honest in his convictions is evident. I hat 
hundreds of earnest and honest men hold the same convictions is also 
evident. Will the future inciease, or decrease, the number ? ” — New York 
Herald. 

“ So ample was Mr. Bellamy’s material, so rich is his imaginative power, 
that ‘Looking Backward’ scarcely gave him room to turn in. . . . The 
betterment of man is a noble topic, and the purpose of Mr, Bellamy’s 
‘ Equality ’ is to approach it with reverence. The book will raise many dis- 
cussions. The subject which Mr, Bellamy writes about is inexhaustible, 
and it has never-failing human interest.” — New York Times. 

“ ‘ Equality ’ deserves praise for its completeness. It shows the thought 
and work of years. It apparently treats of every phase of its subject. . . . 
Altogether praiseworthy and very remarkable.” — Chicago Tribune. 

“There is no question at all about the power of the author both as the 
teller of a marvelous story and as the imaginative creator of a scheme of 
earthly human happiness. ‘ Equality ’ is profoundly interesting in a great 
many different ways.”— Boston Daily Advertiser. 

“A vastly interesting work, and those who feel in the air the coming of 
great social, industrial, and economical changes, whether they hope for or 
fear them, will find ‘ Equality ’ the most absorbing reading. The ready sale 
of the first installment of the book shows how real and general the concern 
in these questions has grown to \iU'— Springfield Republican. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 





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